rma 
1 


Y 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Mrs.   George     Gore 


UTHER   AND    IGRAINE 


PELLEAS    WATCHED    HER    AS    HER    GREY    GOWN    WENT    AMID   THE 
GREEN    AND    RED  " 


UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 


BY 

WARWICK    DEEPING 


ILLUSTRATED  BY   W.   BEND  A 


NEW   YORK 

THE    OUTLOOK    COMPANY 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY. 


ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED. 


PUBLISHED  OCTOBER,  1903. 


?R 


MAUDE    MERRILL 

WITH   THE  AUTHOR'S   HOMAGE 


922559 


CONTENTS 

BOOK    I 


PAGE 

THE  WAY  TO  WINCHESTER         .         .         .         .          i 


BOOK    II 
GORLOIS     ........       93 

BOOK    III 
THE  WAR  IN  WALES          .         .         .         .         .199 

BOOK    IV 

TlNTAGEL    ........       325 


BOOK    I 

THE   WAY   TO   WINCHESTER 


BENEATH  the  dark  cornices  of  a  thicket  of  wind-stunted 
pines  stood  a  small  company  of  women  looking  out  into  the 
hastening  night.  The  half  light  of  evening  lay  over  the 
scene,  rolling  wood  and  valley  into  a  misty  mass,  while 
the  horizon  stood  curbed  by  a  belt  of  imminent  clouds.  In 
the  western  vault,  a  vast  rent  in  the  wall  of  grey  gave  out 
a  blaze  of  transient  gold  that  slanted  like  a  spear-shaft  to  a 
sullen  sea. 

A  wind  cried  restlessly  amid  the  trees,  gusty  at  intervals, 
but  tuning  its  mood  to  a  desolate  and  constant  moan. 
There  was  an  expression  of  despair  on  the  face  of  the  west. 
The  woods  were  full  of  a  vague  woe,  and  of  troubled  breath- 
ing. The  trees  seemed  to  sway  to  one  another,  to  fling 
strange  words  with  a  tossing  of  hair,  and  outstretched  hands. 
The  furze  in  the  valley  —  swept  and  harrowed  —  undulated 
like  a  green  lagoon. 

The  women  upon  the  hill  were  garbed  after  the  fashion 
of  grey  nuns.  Their  gowns  stood  out  blankly  against  the 
ascetic  trunks  of  the  pines.  They  were  huddled  together 
in  a  group,  like  sheep  under  a  thorn  hedge  when  storms 
threaten.  The  dark  ovals  of  their  hoods  were  turned 
towards  the  south,  where  the  white  patch  of  a  sail  showed 
vaguely  through  the  gathering  grey. 

Between  the  hill  and  the  cliffs  lay  a  valley,  threaded  by 
a  meagre  stream,  that  quavered  through  pastures.  A  mist 
hung  there  despite  the  wind.  Folded  by  a  circle  of  oaks 
rose  the  grey  walls  of  an  ecclesiastical  building  of  no  incon- 
siderable size,  while  the  mournful  clangour  of  a  bell  came 
up  upon  the  wind,  with  a  vague  sound  as  of  voices  chanting. 

3 


4  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Valley,  stream,  and  abbey  were  rapidly  melting  into  the 
indefinite  background  of  the  night. 

Suddenly  a  snarling  murmur  seemed  to  swell  the  plaining 
of  the  bell.  A  dark  mass  that  was  moving  through  the 
meadows  beneath  like  a  herd  of  kine  broke  into  a  fringe  of 
hurrying  specks  that  dissolved  into  the  shadows  of  the  circle 
of  oaks.  The  bell  still  continued  to  toll,  while  the  women 
beneath  the  pines  shivered  and  drew  closer  together  as 
though  for  warmth  and  comfort.  There  was  not  one 
among  them  who  had  not  grasped  the  full  significance  of 
the  sinister  sound  that  had  come  to  them  from  the  valley. 
A  novice,  taller  than  her  sisters,  stood  forward  from  the 
group,  as  though  eager  to  catch  the  first  evidence  of  the 
deed  that  was  to  be  done  on  that  drear  evening.  She  held 
up  a  hand  to  those  behind  her,  in  mute  appeal  to  them  to 
listen.  The  bell  had  ceased  pulsing.  In  its  stead  sounded 
a  faint  eerie  whimper,  an  occasional  shrill  cry  that  seemed 
to  leap  out  of  silence  like  a  bubble  from  a  pool  where  death 
has  been. 

The  women  were  shaken  from  their  strained  vigilance  as 
by  a  wind.  The  utter  grey  of  the  hour  seemed  to  stifle 
them.  Some  were  on  their  knees,  praying  and  weeping; 
one  had  fainted,  and  lay  huddled  against  the  trunk  of  a  pine. 
It  was  such  a  tragedy  as  was  often  played  in  those  days  of 
disruption  and  despair,  for  Rome  —  the  decrepit  Saturn  of 
history  —  had  fallen  from  empire  to  a  tottering  dotage.  Her 
colonies  —  those  Titans  of  the  past  — still  quivered  beneath 
the  doom  piled  upon  them  by  the  Teuton.  In  Britain,  the 
cry  of  a  nation  had  gone  out  blindly  into  the  night. 
Vortigern  had  perished  in  the  flames  of  Genorium.  Recul- 
buum,  Rhutupiae,  and  Durovernum  had  fallen.  The  fair 
fields  of  Kent  were  open  to  the  pirate ;  while  Aurelius, 
stout  soldier-king,  gathered  spear  and  shield  to  remedy  the 
need  of  Britain. 

The  women  upon  the  hill  were  but  the  creatures  of 
destiny.  Realism  had  touched  them  with  cynical  finger. 
The  barbarians  had  come  shorewards  that  day  in  their  ships, 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  5 

and  at  the  first  breathing  of  the  news  the  abbey  dependants 
had  fled,  leaving  nun  and  novice  to  the  mercies  of  the 
moment.  It  had  become  a  matter  of  flight  or  martyrdom. 
Certain  fervent  women  had  chosen  to  remain  beside  their 
abbess  in  the  abbey  chapel,  to  await  with  vesper  chant  and 
bell  the  coming  of  sword  and  saexe.  Those  more  frail  of 
spirit  had  fled  with  the  novices  from  the  valley,  and  now 
knelt  numb  with  a  tense  terror  on  the  brow  of  that  wind- 
swept hill,  watching  fearfully  for  the  abbey's  doom.  They 
could  imagine  what  was  passing  in  the  shadowy  chapel 
where  they  had  so  often  worshipped.  The  face  of  the 
Madonna  would  be  gazing  placidly  on  death  —  and  on  more 
than  death.  It  was  all  very  swift  —  very  terrible.  Thence- 
forward cloister  and  garden  were  theirs  no  more. 

A  red  gleam  started  suddenly  from  the  black  mass  in  the 
valley.  The  nuns  gripped  hands  and  watched,  while  the 
gleam  became  a  glare  that  poured  steadily  above  the  dark 
outline  of  the  oaks.  A  long  flame  leapt  up  like  a  red  finger 
above  the  trees.  The  belfry  of  the  chapel  rose  blackly  from 
a  circlet  of  fire,  and  gilded  smoke  rolled  away  nebulously 
into  the  night.  The  barbarians  had  set  torch  to  the  place. 
The  abbey  of  Avangel  went  up  in  flame. 

The  tall  novice  who  had  been  kneeling  in  advance  of  the 
main  company  rose  to  her  feet,  and  turned  to  those  who 
still  watched  and  prayed  under  the  pines.  The  girl's  hood 
had  fallen  back ;  the  hair  that  should  have  been  primly 
coifed  rolled  down  in  billowy  bronze  upon  her  shoulders. 
There  was  infinite  pride  on  the  wistful  face  —  a  certain 
scorn  for  the  frailer  folk  who  wept  and  found  sustenance  in 
prayer.  The  girl's  eyes  shone  largely  even  in  the  meagre 
light  under  the  trees,  and  there  was  a  straight  courage  about 
her  lips.  She  approached  and  spoke  to  the  women  who 
knelt  and  watched  the  burning  abbey  in  a  cataleptic  stupor. 

"  Will  you  kneel  all  night  ?  "  she  said. 

The  words  were  scourges  in  their  purpose.  Several  of 
the  nuns  looked  up  from  the  flames  in  the  valley. 

"  Shame  on  you,  worldling  !  "  said  one  of  thin  and  thankless 


6  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

visage;  "down  on  your  knees,  brat,  and  pray  for  the 
dead." 

The  novice  gave  a  curt,  low  laugh.  The  reproofs  of  a 
year  rankled  in  her  like  bitter  herbs. 

"  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead,"  quoth  she.  "  I  am  for 
life  and  the  living." 

"  Shame,  shame  !  "  came  the  ready  response.  "  May  the 
Mother  of  Mercy  melt  your  proud  heart,  and  punish  you 
for  your  sins.  You  are  bad  to  the  core." 

"  Shame  or  no  shame,"  said  the  girl,  "  my  heart  can  grieve 
for  death  as  well  as  thine,  Sister  Claudia ;  and  now  the 
"abbey's  burnt,  you  may  couch  here  and  scold  till  dawn  if 
you  will.  You  may  scold  the  heathen  when  they  come  to 
butcher  you  all.  I  warrant  they  will  give  such  a  beauty 
short  shrift." 

The  lean  nun  ventured  no  answer.  She  had  been 
worsted  before  by  this  rebellious  tongue,  and  had  discovered 
expediency  in  silence.  Several  of  the  women  had  risen,  and 
were  thronging  round  the  novice  Igraine,  querulous  and 
fearful.  Implicit  faith,  though  pious  and  admirable  in  the 
extreme,  neither  pointed  a  path  nor  provided  a  lantern. 
Southwards  lay  the  sea  and  the  barbarians ;  the  purlieus  of 
Andredswold  came  down  to  touch  the  ocean.  There  was 
night  in  the  sky ;  no  refuge  within  miles,  and  wild  folk 
enough  in  the  world  to  make  travelling  sufficiently  perilous. 
Moreover,  the  day's  deed  had  harried  the  women's  emotions 
into  a  condition  of  vibrating  panic.  The  unknown  seemed 
to  hem  them  in,  to  smother  as  with  a  cloak.  They  were 
like  children  who  fear  to  stir  in  the  dark,  and  shrink  from 
impalpable  nothingness  as  though  a  strange  hand  waited  to 
grip  them  to  some  spiritual  torture.  As  it  was,  they  were 
fluttering  among  the  pines  like  birds  who  fear  the  falcon. 

"  It  grows  dark,"  said  one. 

u  Let  Claudia  pray  for  us." 

"  Igraine,  you  are  wiser  in  the  world  than  we  !  " 

u  Truth,"  said  the  girl,  "  you  may  bide  and  snivel  with 
Claudia  if  you  will.  I  am  for  Anderida  through  the  woods." 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  7 

u  But  the  woods,"  said  a  child  with  wide,  dark  eyes, 
"  the  woods  are  fearful  at  night." 

"  They  are  kinder  than  the  heathen,"  said  Igraine,  taking 
the  girl's  hand.  u  Come  with  me  ;  I  will  mother  you." 

Even  as  she  spoke  the  novice  saw  a  point  of  fire  disjoint 
itself  from  the  dark  circle  of  the  oaks  below.  Another  and 
another  followed  it,  and  began  to  jerk  hither  and  thither  in 
the  meadows.  The  dashes  of  flame  gradually  took  a 
northern  trend,  as  though  the  torch-bearers  were  for 
ascending  the  long  slope  that  idled  up  to  the  ragged  thicket 
of  pines.  She  turned  without  further  vigil,  and  made  the 
most  of  her  tidings  in  an  appeal  to  the  women  under  the 
trees. 

u  Look  yonder,"  she  said,  pointing  into  the  valley.  "  Let 
Sister  Claudia  say  whether  she  will  wait  till  those  torches 
come  over  the  hill." 

There  was  instant  hubbub  among  the  nuns.  Cooped  as 
they  had  been  within  the  mothering  arms  of  the  Church, 
peril  found  them  utterly  impotent  when  self-reliance  and 
natural  instinct  were  needed  to  shepherd  them  from  danger. 
The  night  seemed  to  sweep  like  a  wheel  with  the  burning 
pyre  in  the  meadows  for  axle.  The  torches  were  moving 
hither  and  thither  in  fantastic  fashion,  as  though  the  men 
who  bore  them  were  doubling  right  and  left  in  the  dark,  like 
hounds  casting  about  for  a  scent.  The  sight  was  sinister, 
and  stirred  the  women  to  renewed  panic. 

"  Igraine,  help  us,"  came  the  cry. 

Even  tyranny  is  welcome  in  times  of  peril.  Witless, 
resourceless,  they  gathered  about  her  in  a  dumb  stupor. 
Even  Claudia  lost  her  greed  for  martyrdom  and  became 
human.  They  were  all  eager  enough  for  the  forest  now, 
and  hungry  for  a  leader.  Igraine  stood  up  among  them 
like  a  tall  figure  of  hope.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  east,  where 
a  weird  glow  above  the  tree  tops  told  her  that  the  moon 
was  rising. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  we  shall  have  light  upon  our  way. 
There  is  a  bridle-path  through  the  wold  here  that  goes 


8  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

north,  and  touches  the  road  from  Durovernum.  I  am  going 
by  that  path,  follow  who  will." 

"  We  will  follow  Igraine,"  came  the  answer. 

North,  east,  and  west  lay  Andredswold,  sinister  as  a  sea 
at  night.  The  hill,  tangled  with  gorse  and  bracken,  and 
sapped  by  burrows,  dipped  to  it  gradually  like  an  outjutting 
of  the  land.  To  the  east  they  could  see  a  wide  tangle  of 
pines  latticing  the  light  of  the  moon.  It  was  dark,  and  the 
ground  more  than  dubious  to  the  feet.  The  women,  nine 
in  all,  herded  close  on  Igraine,  who  walked  like  an  Eastern 
shepherdess  with  the  sheep  following  in  her  track.  First 
came  Claudia,  who  had  held  sway  over  the  linen,  with 
Malt,  the  stout  cellaress,  next  Elaine  and  Lily,  twin  sisters, 
two  nuns,  and  two  novices.  There  was  much  stumbling, 
much  clutching  at  one  another  in  the  dark ;  but,  thanks  to 
holy  terror,  their  progress  was  in  measure  ungracefully 
speedy. 

The  girl  Igraine  led  with  a  keen  gleam  in  her  eyes  and 
a  queer  cheerfulness  upon  her  face,  as  she  stepped  out 
blithely  for  the  dark  mass  where  the  wold  began.  Her 
sojourn  in  the  abbey  had  been  brief  and  stormy,  a  curt 
attempt  at  discipline  that  had  failed  most  nobly.  One 
might  as  well  have  sought  to  hem  in  spring  with  winter  as 
to  curb  desire  that  leapt  towards  greenness  and  the  dawn 
like  joy.  She  had  ever  thought  more  of  a  net  for  her  hair 
than  of  her  rosary.  The  little  pool  in  the  pleasaunce  had 
served  her  as  her  mirror,  casting  back  a  full  face  set  with 
amber  shadowed  eyes,  and  a  bosom  more  attuned  to  passion 
than  to  dreams  of  quiet  sanctity.  She  had  been  the  way- 
ward child  of  the  abbey  flock,  flooded  with  homilies,  surren- 
dered to  eternal  penances,  yet  holding  her  own  in  a  fair 
worldly  fashion  that  left  the  good  women  of  the  place 
wholly  to  leeward. 

Thrust  out  into  the  world  again  she  took  to  the  wild 
like  a  fox  to  the  woodland,  while  her  more  tractable  com- 
rades were  like  caged  doves  baffled  by  unaccustomed  free- 
dom. Matins,  complines,  vespers  were  no  more.  Cold 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  g 

stone  arched  no  more  to  tomb  her  fancies.  Above  stretched 
the  free  dome  of  the  sky ;  around,  the  wilderness  free  and 
untainted  ;  in  lieu  of  psalms  she  heard  the  gathering  cry  of 
the  wind,  and  the  great  voice  of  the  forest  at  night. 

In  due  course  they  came  to  where  a  dark  mass  betokened 
the  rampart  thickets  of  the  wold,  rising  like  a  wall  across 
the  sky.  Igraine  hoped  for  the  track,  and  found  it  running 
like  a  white  fillet  about  the  brow  of  a  wood.  They  followed 
till  it  thrust  into  the  trees,  a  thin  thread  in  the  shadows. 
As  they  went,  great  oaks  overreached  them  with  sinuous 
limbs.  The  vault  was  fretted  innumerably  with  the  faint 
overdome  of  the  sky.  Now  and  again  a  solitary  star 
glimmered  through.  To  the  women  that  place  seemed 
like  an  interminable  cavern,  where  grotto  on  grotto  dwindled 
away  into  oblivious  gloom.  But  for  the  track's  narrow 
comfort,  Igraine  and  her  company  would  have  been  impotent 
indeed. 

The  prospect  was  sad  for  these  folk  who  had  lived  for 
peace,  and  had  tuned  their  lives  to  placid  chants  and  the 
balm  of  prayer.  In  Britain  Christ  was  worshipped  and  the 
Cross  adored,  yet  abbeys  were  burnt,  and  children  martyred, 
and  strong  towns  given  over  to  sack  and  fire.  Truth 
seemed  to  taunt  them  with  the  apparent  impotence  of  their 
creed.  The  abbess  Gratia  had  often  said  that  Britain,  for 
its  sloth  and  sin,  deserved  to  meet  the  scourge  of  war,  and 
here  were  her  words  exampled  by  her  own  stark  death. 
The  nuns  talked  of  the  state  of  the  land,  as  they  plodded 
on  through  the  night.  There  was  no  soul  among  them 
that  had  not  been  grossly  stirred  by  the  fate  that  had  over- 
taken Avangel,  Gratia,  and  her  more  zealous  nuns.  It  was 
but  natural  that  a  cry  for  vengeance  should  have  gained 
voice  in  the  hearts  of  these  outcast  women,  and  that  a  cer- 
tain querulous  bitterness  should  have  found  tongue  against 
those  in  power. 

Igraine,  walking  in  the  van,  listened  to  their  words,  and 
laughed  with  some  scorn  in  her  heart. 

u  You  are  very  wise,  all  of  you,"  she  said  presently  over 


10  UTHER  AND  IGRAfNE 

her  shoulder.  "  You  speak  of  war  and  disruption  as  though 
the  whole  kingdom  were  in  the  dust.  True,  Kent  is  lost, 
the  heathen  have  burnt  defenceless  places  on  the  coast,  and 
have  stormed  a  few  towns.  The  abbey  of  Avangel  is  not 
all  Britain.  Have  we  not  Aurelius  and  the  great  Uther  ? 
Our  folk  will  gather  head  anon,  and  push  these  whelps  iritc 
the  sea." 

"  God  grant  it,"  said  Claudia,  with  a  smirk  heavenward. 

"  We  need  a  man,"  quoth  Igraine. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  find  him,  pert  one." 

"  Peril  will,"  said  the  girl ;  "  there  is  no  hero  when  there 
is  no  dragon  or  giant  in  need  of  the  sword.  Britain  will 
find  her  knight  ere  long." 

"  Lud,"  said  Malt,  the  cellaress,  "  I  wish  I  could  find 
my  supper." 

Thereat  they  all  laughed,  Igraine  as  heartily  as  any. 

u  Perhaps  Claudia  will  pray  for  manna  dew,"  she  said. 

"Scoffer!" 

"  It  will  be  cranberries,  and  bread  and  water,  till  better 
seasons  come.  I  have  heard  that  there  are  wild  grapes  in 
the  wold." 

"  Bread  !  "  quoth  Malt ;  "  did  some  kind  soul  say  bread  ? '' 

"  I  have  a  small  loaf  here  under  my  habit." 

14  Ah,  Igraine,  girl,  I  would  chant  twenty  psalms  for  ? 
morsel  of  that  loaf." 

"  Chant  away,  sister.  Begin  on  the  4  Attendite,  popule/ 
I  believe  it  is  one  of  the  longest." 

"  Don't  trifle  with  a  hungry  wretch." 

"  The  psalms,  Malt,  or  not  a  crust." 

"  Keep  it  yourself,  greedy  hussy  ;   I  can  go  without." 

"  We  will  share  it,  all  of  us,  presently,"  said  the  girl, 
"  unless  Malt  wants  to  eat  the  whole." 

They  held  on  under  the  ban  of  night,  following  the  track 
like  Theseus  did  his  thread.  At  times  the  path  struck  out 
into  a  patch  of  open  ground,  covered  with  scrub  and  bracken, 
or  bristling  thick  with  furze.  Igraine  had  never  seen  such 
timid  folk  as  these  nuns  from  Avangel.  If  a  stick  cracked 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  n 

they  would  start,  huddle  together,  and  vow  they  heard  foot- 
steps. They  mistook  an  owl's  hoot  for  a  heathen  cry,  and 
a  night-jar's  creaking  note  made  them  swear  they  caught 
the  chafe  of  steel.  Once  they  suffered  a  most  shrewd  fright. 
They  drove  a  herd  of  red  deer  from  cover,  and  the  rush  and 
tumultuous  sound  of  their  galloping  created  a  most  holy 
panic  among  the  women.  It  was  some  time  before  Igraine 
could  get  them  on  the  march  again. 

As  the  night  wore  on  they  began  to  lag  from  sheer 
weariness.  Two  or  three  were  feeble  as  sickly  children,  and 
the  abbey  life  had  done  little  for  the  body,  though  it  had 
done  much  to  deform  the  mind.  Igraine  had  to  turn  tyrant 
in  very  earnest.  She  knew  the  women  looked  to  her  for 
courage  and  guidance,  and  that  they  would  be  hopeless 
without  her  stronger  mind  to  lead  them.  She  put  this 
knowledge  to  effect,  and  held  it  like  a  lash  over  their 
weakly  spirits. 

Igraine  found  abundant  scope  for  her  ingenuity.  When 
they  voted  a  halt  for  rest,  she  vowed  she  would  hold  on  alone 
and  leave  them.  The  threat  made  the  whole  company  trail 
after  her  like  sheep.  When  they  grumbled,  she  told  tales  of 
the  savagery  and  lust  of  the  heathen,  and  made  their  fears 
ache  more  lustily  than  did  their  feet.  By  such  devices  she 
kept  them  to  it  for  the  greater  portion  of  the  night,  know- 
ing that  the  shrewdest  kindness  lay  in  seeming  harshness, 
and  that  to  humour  them  was  but  mistaken  pity. 

At  last  —  heathen  or  no  heathen  —  they  would  go  no 
further.  It  was  some  hours  before  dawn.  The  trees  had 
thinned,  and  through  more  open  colonnades  they  looked  out 
on  what  appeared  to  be  a  grass-grown  valley  sleeping  peace- 
fully under  the  moon.  A  great  cedar  grew  near,  a  pyra- 
mid of  gloom.  Malt,  the  cellaress,  grumbling  and 
groaning,  crept  under  its  shadows,  and  commended  Igraine 
to  purgatorial  fire.  The  rest,  limp  and  spiritless,  vowed 
they  would  rather  die  than  take  another  step.  Huddling 
together  under  the  branches,  they  were  soon  half  of  them 
asleep  in  an  ecstasy  of  weariness.  Igraine,  seeing  further 


12  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

effort  useless,  surrendered  to  the  inevitable,  and  lay  down 
herself  to  sleep  under  the  tree. 


II 

DAY  came  with  an  essential  stealth.  The  great  trees 
stood  without  a  rustling  leaf,  in  a  stupor  of  silence.  A 
vast  hush  held  as  though  the  wold  knelt  at  orisons.  Soon 
ripple  on  ripple  of  light  surged  from  the  hymning  east,  and 
the  night  was  not. 

The  sleep  of  the  women  from  Avangel  had  proved  but 
brief  and  fitful,  couched  as  they  had  been  under  so  strange 
a  roof.  They  were  all  awake  under  the  cedar.  Igraine, 
standing  under  its  green  ledges,  listened  to  their  monoto- 
nous talk  as  they  rehearsed  their  plight  dismally  under  the 
shade.  The  nun  Claudia's  voice  was  still  raised  weakly 
in  pious  fashion  ;  she  had  learnt  to  ape  saintliness  all  her 
life,  and  it  was  a  mere  habit  with  her.  The  cellaress's  red 
face  was  in  no  measure  placid ;  hunger  had  dissipated  her 
patience  like  an  ague,  and  she  found  comfort  in  grumbling. 
The  younger  women  were  less  voluble,  as  age  and  custom 
behoved  them  to  be.  Unnaturally  bred,  they  were  like 
images  of  wax,  capable  only  of  receiving  the  impress  of  the 
minds  about  them.  Such  a  woman  as  Malt  owed  her 
individuality  solely  to  the  superlative  cravings  of  the 
flesh. 

About  them  rose  the  slopes  of  a  valley,  set  tier  on  tier 
with  trees,  nebulous,  silent  in  the  now  hurrying  light. 
Grassland,  moist  and  spangled,  lay  dew-heavy  in  the  lap 
of  the  valley,  with  the  track  curling  drearily  into  a  further 
tunnel  of  green. 

Igraine,  scanning  the  trees  and  the  stretch  of  grassland, 
found  on  a  sudden  something  to  hold  her  gaze.  On  the 
southern  side  of  the  valley  the  walls  of  a  building  showed 
vaguely  through  the  trees.  It  was  so  well  screened  that  a 
transient  glance  would  have  passed  over  the  line  of  foliage 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  13 

without  discovering  the  white  glimmer  of  stone.  She 
pointed  it  out  to  her  companions,  who  were  quickly  up 
from  under  the  cedar  at  the  thought  of  the  meal  and  the 
material  comforts  such  a  forest  habitation  might  provide. 
They  were  soon  deep  in  the  tall  grass,  their  habits  wet  to 
the  knee  with '  dew,  as  they  held  across  the  valley  for  the 
manor  amid  the  trees. 

The  place  gathered  distinctness  as  they  approached. 
Two  horns  of  woodland  jutted  out  —  enclosing  and  holding 
it  jealously  from  the  track  through  the  valley.  There  were 
outhouses  packed  away  under  the  trees.  A  garden  held  it 
on  the  north.  The  building  itself  was  modelled  somewhat 
after  the  fashion  of  a  Roman  villa,  with  a  porch  —  whitely 
pillared  —  leading  from  a  terrace  fringed  with  flowers. 

The  silence  of  the  place  impressed  itself  upon  Igraine 
and  the  women  as  they  drew  near  from  the  meadowlands. 
The  manor  seemed  lifeless  as  the  woods  that  circled  it. 
There  were  no  cattle  —  no  servants  to  be  seen,  not  even  a 
hound  to  bay  warning  on  the  threshold.  Passing  over  a 
small  stone  bridge,  they  went  up  an  avenue  of  cypresses 
that  led  primly  to  the  garden  and  the  terrace.  They 
halted  at  the  steps  leading  to  the  portico.  The  garden, 
broken  in  places,  and  somewhat  unkempt,  glistened  with 
colour  in  the  early  sun ;  terrace  and  portico  were  void  and 
silent;  the  whole  manor  seemed  utterly  asleep. 

The  women  halted  by  the  stairway,  and  looked  dubiously 
into  one  another's  faces.  There  was  something  sinister 
about  the  place  —  a  prophetic  hush  that  seemed  to  stand 
with  finger  on  lip  and  bid  the  curious  forbear.  After 
their  march  over  the  meadows,  and  considering  the  hungry 
plight  they  were  in,  it  seemed  more  than  unreasonable  to 
turn  away  without  a  word.  None  the  less,  they  all  hesi- 
tated, beckoning  each  to  her  fellow  to  set  foot  first  in  this 
house  of  silence.  Igraine,  seeing  their  indecision,  took 
the  initiative  as  usual,  and  began  to  climb  the  steps  that 
led  to  the  portico.  Claudia  and  the  rest  followed  her  in  a 
body. 


14  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Within  the  portico  the  carved  doors  were  wide.  The 
sun  streamed  down  through  a  latticed  roof  into  a  peristylum, 
where  flowers  grew,  and  a  pool  shone  silverly.  There  were 
statues  at  the  angles ;  one  had  been  thrown  down,  and  lay 
half  buried  in  a  mass  of  flowers.  The  place  looked  wholly 
deserted,  though,  by  the  orderly  mood  of  court  and  gar- 
den, it  could  not  have  been  long  since  human  hands  had 
tended  it. 

The  women  gathered  together  about  the  little  font  in 
the  centre  of  the  peristylum,  and  debated  together  in  low 
tones.  They  were  still  but  half  at  ease  with  the  place,  and 
quite  ready  to  suspect  some  sudden  development.  The 
house  had  a  scent  of  tragedy  about  it.  that  was  far  from 
comforting. 

Said  Malt,  "  I  should  judge,  sisters,  that  the  folk  have 
fled,  and  that  we  are  to  be  sustained  by  the  hand  of  grace. 
Come  and  search." 

Claudia  demurred  a  moment. 

"  Is  it  lawful,"  quoth  she,  "  to  possess  one's  self  of  food 
and  raiment  in  a  strange  and  empty  house  ? " 

41  Nonsense,"  said  the  cellaress  with  a  sniff. 

"  But,  Malt,  I  never  stole  a  crust  in  my  life." 

11  Better  learn  the  craft,  then.  King  David  stole  the 
shewbread." 

"  It  was  given  him  of  the  priests." 

"  Tut,  sister,  then  are  we  wiser  than  David ;  we  can 
thieve  with  our  own  hands.  I  say  this  house  is  God-sent 
for  our  need.  May  I  stifle  if  I  err." 

"  Malt  is  right,"  said  Igraine,  laughing ;  "  let  us  deprive 
the  barbarians  of  a  pie  or  a  crucifix." 

"  Aye,"  chimed  Malt,  "  want  makes  thieving  honest. 
Jubilate  Deo.  I'm  for  the  pantry." 

A  colonnade  enclosed  the  peristylum  on  every  quarter. 
Beneath  the  shadows  cast  by  the  architrave  and  roof,  showed 
the  portals  of  the  various  chambers.  Igraine  led  the  way. 
The  first  room  that  they  essayed  appeared  to  have  been  a 
sleeping  apartment,  for  there  were  beds  in  it,  the  bedding 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  15 

lying  disordered  and  fallen  upon  the  floor  as  though  there 
had  been  a  struggle,  or  a  sudden  wild  flight.  It  was  a 
woman's  chamber,  judging  by  its  mirror  of  steel,  and  the 
articles  that  were  scattered  on  floor  and  table.  The  next 
room  proved  to  be  a  species  of  parlour  or  living-room.  A 
meal  had  been  spread  upon  the  table,  and  left  untouched. 
Platter  and  drinking  cups  were  there,  a  dish  of  cakes,  a 
joint  on  a  great  charger,  bread,  olives,  fruit,  and  wine. 
Armour  hung  on  the  walls,  with  mirrors  of  steel,  and 
paintings  upon  panels  of  wood. 

The  women  made  themselves  speedily  welcome  after 
the  trials  of  the  night.  Each  was  enticed  by  some  special 
object,  and  character  leaked  out  queerly  in  the  choosing. 
Malt  ran  for  a  beaker  of  wine;  the  cakes  were  pilfered  by 
the  younger  folk;  Claudia — whispering  of  Saxon  desecra- 
tion —  possessed  herself  with  an  obeisance  of  a  little  silver 
cross  that  hung  upon  the  wall.  Igraine  took  down  a  bow, 
a  quiver  of  arrows,  and  a  sheathed  hunting  knife ;  she  slung 
the  quiver  over  her  shoulder,  and  strapped  the  knife  to  her 
girdle.  The  clear  kiss  of  morning  had  sharpened  the  hunger 
of  a  night,  and  the  meal  spread  in  that  woodland  manor 
proved  very  comforting  to  the  fugitives  from  Avangel. 

Satisfied,  they  passed  out  to  explore  the  rooms  as  yet 
unvisited.  A  fine  curiosity  led  them,  for  they  were  like 
children  who  probe  the  dark  places  of  a  ruin.  The  eastern 
chambers  gave  no  greater  revealings  than  did  those  upon 
the  west.  The  kitchen  quarters  were  empty  and  soundless, 
though  there  was  a  joint  upon  the  spit  that  hung  over  the 
ashes  of  a  spent  fire.  It  seemed  more  than  likely  that  the 
inmates  had  fled  in  fear  of  the  barbarians,  leaving  the  house 
in  the  early  hours  of  some  previous  dawn. 

As  yet  they  had  not  visited  a  room  whose  door  opened 
upon  the  southern  quarter  of  the  peristyle.  Judging  by  its 
portal,  it  promised  to  be  a  greater  chamber  than  any 
of  the  preceding,  probably  the  banqueting  or  guest  room. 
The  door  stood  ajar,  giving  view  of  a  frescoed  wall 
within. 


1 6  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Malt,  who  had  waxed  jovial  since  her  communion  with 
the  tankard,  pushed  the  door  open,  and  went  frankly  into  the 
half  light  of  a  great  chamber.  She  came  to  an  abrupt  halt 
on  the  threshold,  with  a  fat  hand  quavering  the  symbol  of 
a  cross  in  the  air.  The  women  crowded  the  doorway,  and 
looked  in  over  the  cellaress's  stout  shoulders. 

In  a  gilded  chair  in  the  centre  of  the  room  sat  the 
figure  of  a  man.  His  hands  were  clenched  upon  the 
lion-headed  arms  of  the  siege,  and  his  chin  bowed  down 
upon  his  breast.  He  was  clad  in  purple ;  there  were  rings 
upon  his  fingers,  and  his  brow  was  bound  with  a  band  of 
gold.  At  his  feet  crouched  a  great  wolf-hound,  motionless, 
dead. 

The  women  in  the  doorway  stared  on  the  scene  in 
silence.  The  man  in  the  chair  might  have  been  thought 
asleep  save  for  a  certain  stark  look —  a  bleak  immobility  that 
contradicted  the  possibility  of  life.  Here  they  had  stumbled 
on  tragedy  with  a  vengeance.  The  mute  face  of  death 
lurked  in  the  shadows,  and  the  vast  mystery  of  life  seemed 
about  them  like  a  cold  vapour.  It  was  a  sudden  change 
from  sunlight  into  shade. 

Igraine  pushed  past  Malt,  and  ventured  close  to  the 
crouching  hound.  Bending  down,  she  looked  into  the  dead 
man's  face.  It  was  pinched  and  grey,  but  young,  none  the 
less,  and  bearing  even  in  death  a  certain  sensuous  haughtiness 
and  dissolute  beauty.  The  man  had  been  dark,  with  hair 
turbulent  and  lustrous.  In  his  bosom  glinted  the  silver 
pommel  of  a  knife,  and  there  were  stains  upon  cloak  and 
tessellated  pavement.  Clasped  in  one  hand  was  a  small  cross 
of  gold  that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  plucked  from  a 
chain  or  necklet,  and  held  gripped  in  the  death  agony. 
The  wolf-hound  had  been  thrust  through  the  body  with 
a  sword. 

"  Hum,"  said  Malt,  with  a  sniff,  —  "  Christian  work  here. 
And  a  comely  fellow,  too  —  more's  the  pity.  Look  at  the 
rings  on  his  fingers ;  I  wonder  whether  I  might  take  one 
for  prayer  money  ?  It  would  buy  candles." 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  17 

Igraine  was  still  looking  at  the  dead  man  with  strange 
awe  in  her  heart. 

"  Keep  off,"  she  said,  thrusting  off  Malt ;  "  the  man  has 
been  stabbed." 

"  Well,  haven't  I  eyes  too,  hussy  ?  " 

Claudia  came  in,  white  and  quavering,  with  her  crucifix 
up. 

"  Poor  wretch  ! "  said  she  ;  "  can't  we  bury  him  ?  " 

"  Bury  him  !  "  cried  Malt. 

"  Yes,  sister." 

"  Thanks,  no.     It  would  spoil  my  dinner." 

Claudia  gave  a  sudden  scream,  and  jumped  back,  holding 
her  skirts  up. 

"  There's  blood  on  the  floor !  Holy  mother !  did  the 
dog  move  ?  " 

"  Move  !  "  quoth  Malt,  giving  the  brute  a  kick;  "  what 
a  mouse  you  are,  Claudia." 

"  Are  you  sure  the  man's  dead  ?  " 

"  Dead,  and  cold,"  said  Igraine,  touching  his  cheek,  and 
drawing  away  with  a  shiver.  "  Come  away,  the  place  makes 
my  flesh  creep.  Shut  the  door,  Malt.  Let  us  leave  him  so." 

The  women  from  Avangel  had  seen  enough  of  the  manor 
in  the  forest.  Certainly,  it  held  nothing  more  perilous  than 
a  corpse,  perched  stiffly  in  a  gilded  chair ;  but  the  dead  man 
seemed  to  exert  a  sinister  influence  upon  the  spirits  of  the 
company,  and  to  stifle  any  desire  for  a  further  sojourn  in  the 
place.  Folk  with  murder  fresh  upon  their  hands  might 
still  be  within  the  purlieus  of  the  valley.  The  women 
thought  of  the  glooms  of  the  forest,  and  of  the  strong  walls 
of  Anderida,  and  discovered  a  very  lively  desire  to  be  free 
of  Andredswold,  and  the  threats  of  the  unknown. 

They  left  the  man  sitting  in  his  chair,  with  the  hound  at 
his  feet,  and  went  to  gather  food  for  the  day's  journey. 
Bread  they  took,  and  meat,  and  bound  them  in  a  sheet, 
while  Malt  filled  a  flask  with  wine,  and  bestowed  it  at  her 
girdle.  Igraine  still  had  her  bow,  shafts,  and  hunting  knife. 
Before  sallying,  they  remembered  the  dead.  It  was  Igraine's 


1 8  UTHER  AND  IGRAfNE 

thought.  They  went  and  stood  before  the  door  of  the 
great  chamber,  sang  a  hymn,  and  said  a  prayer.  Then  they 
left  the  place,  and  held  on  into  the  forest. 

Nothing  befell  them  on  their  way  that  morning.  It  was 
noon  before  they  struck  the  road  from  Durovernum  to 
Anderida,  a  straight  and  serious  highway  that  went  whitely 
amid  wastes  of  scrub,  thickets,  and  dark  knolls  of  trees. 
The  women  were  glad  of  its  honest  comfort,  and  blessed 
the  Romans  who  had  wrought  the  road  of  old.  Later 
in  the  day  they  neared  the  sea  again.  Between  masses  of 
trees,  and  over  the  slopes,  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  blue 
plain  that  touched  the  sky.  From  a  little  hill  that  gave 
broader  view,  they  saw  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  were 
ploughing  westward  with  a  temperate  wind.  They  took 
them  for  the  galleys  of  the  Saxons,  and  the  thought  hurried 
them  on  their  way  the  more. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  mild  declivity,  with  a  broken 
toll-house  standing  by  the  roadside,  and  two  horsemen  on 
the  watch  there,  as  the  distant  galleys  swept  over  the  sea 
towards  the  west.  The  men  belonged  to  the  royal  forces 
in  Anderida.  They  were  reticent  in  measure,  and  in  no 
optimistic  mood.  They  told  how  the  heathen  had  swept 
the  coast,  how  their  ships  had  ventured  even  to  Vectis,  to 
burn,  slay,  and  martyr.  The  women  learnt  that  Andred's 
town  was  some  ten  miles  distant.  There  was  little  likeli- 
hood, so  the  men  said,  of  their  getting  within  the  walls  that 
night,  for  the  place  was  in  dread  of  siege,  and  was  shut  up 
like  a  rock  after  dusk. 

Igraine  and  the  nuns  elected,  none  the  less,  to  hold  upon 
their  way.  Despite  their  weariness,  the  women  preferred  to 
push  on  and  gain  ground,  rather  than  to  lag  and  lose  courage. 
For  all  they  knew,  the  Saxons  might  be  soon  ashore,  ready 
to  raid  and  slay,  in  their  very  path.  They  left  the  soldiers 
at  the  toll-house,  and  went  downhill  into  a  long  valley. 

Possibly  they  had  gone  a  mile  or  more  when  they  heard 
the  sound  of  galloping  coming  in  their  wake.  On  the  slope 
of  the  hill  they  had  left,  they  could  see  a  distant  wave  of 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  19 

dust  curling  down  the  road  like  smoke.  The  two  men  from 
Andred's  town  were  coming  on  at  a  gallop.  They  were 
very  soon  within  bowshot,  but  gave  no  hint  of  halting. 
Thundering  on,  they  drew  level  with  the  women,  shouted 
as  they  went  by,  and  held  on  fast, —  dust  and  spume  flying. 

"  God's  curse  upon  the  cravens,"  said  Malt,  the  cellaress. 

Cravens  they  were  in  sense ;  yet  the  men  had  reason  on 
their  side,  and  the  women  were  left  staring  at  the  diminish- 
ing fringe  of  dust.  There  was  much  frankness  in  the 
phenomenon,  a  curt  hint  that  carried  emphasis,  and  advised 
action.  "  To  the  woods,"  it  said  ;  "  to  the  woods,  good 
souls,  and  that  quickly." 

The  road  ran  through  the  flats  at  that  place,  with  marsh 
and  meadowland  on  either  hand.  Further  westward,  the 
wold  thrust  forth  a  finger  from  the  north  to  touch  the 
highway.  Southward,  scrub  and  grassland  swept  away  to 
the  sea.  It  was  when  looking  southwards  that  the  nuns 
from  Avangel  discovered  the  stark  truth  of  the  soldier's 
warning.  Against  the  skyline  could  be  seen  a  number  of 
jerking  specks,  moving  fast  over  the  open  land,  and  holding 
north-west  as  though  to  touch  the  road.  They  were  the 
figures  of  men  riding. 

The  outjutting  of  woodland  that  rolled  down  to  edge  the 
highway  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  where  the  women 
stood.  A  bleak  line  of  roadway  parted  them  from  the  mazy 
refuge  of  the  wold.  They  started  away  at  a  run  ;  Igraine 
and  another  novice  dragging  the  nun  Claudia  between  them. 
The  display  was  neither  Olympic  nor  graceful ;  it  would 
have  been  ridiculous  but  for  the  stern  need  that  inspired  it. 
Igraine  and  her  fellows  made  the  best  of  the  highway.  In 
the  west,  the  wold  seemed  to  stretch  an  arm  to  them  like 
a  mother. 

The  heathen  raiders  were  coming  fast  over  the  marshes. 
Igraine,  dragging  the  panting  Claudia  by  the  hand,  looked 
back  and  took  measure  of  the  chase.  There  were  some 
score  at  the  gallop  three  furlongs  or  more  away,  with  others 
on  foot,  holding  on  to  stirrups,  running  and  leaping  like 


20  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

madmen.  The  girl  caught  their  wild,  burly  look  even  at 
that  distance.  They  were  hallooing  one  to  another,  tossing 
axe  and  spear  —  making  a  race  of  it,  like  huntsmen  at  full 
pelt.  Possibly  there  was  sport  in  hounding  a  company  of 
women,  with  the  chance  of  spoil  and  something  more 
brutish  to  entice. 

Igraine  and  her  flock  were  struggling  on  for  very  life. 
Their  feet  seemed  weighted  with  the  shackles  of  an  im- 
potent fear,  while  every  yard  of  the  white  road  appeared 
three  to  them  as  they  ran.  How  they  anguished  and  prayed 
for  the  shadows  of  the  wood.  A  frail  nun,  winded  and 
lagging,  began  to  scream  like  a  hare  when  the  hounds  are 
hard  on  her  haunches.  Another  minute,  and  the  trees 
seemed  to  stride  down  to  them  with  green-bosomed  kind- 
ness. A  wild  scramble  through  a  shallow  dyke  brought 
them  to  bracken  and  a  tangled  barrier  about  the  hem  of  the 
wood.  Then  they  were  amid  the  sleek,  solemn  trunks  of  a 
beech  wood,  scurrying  up  a  shadowed  aisle  with  the  dull 
thudding  of  the  nearing  gallop  in  their  ears. 

It  was  borne  in  upon  Igraine's  reason  as  she  ran  that  the 
trees  would  barely  save  them  from  the  purpose  of  pursuit. 
The  women  —  limp,  witless,  dazed  by  danger  —  could 
hardly  hold  on  fast  enough  to  gain  the  deeper  mazes  of  the 
place,  and  the  sanctuary  the  wold  could  give.  Unless  the 
pursuit  could  be  broken  for  a  season,  the  whole  company 
would  fall  to  the  net  of  the  heathen,  and  only  the  Virgin 
knew  what  might  befall  them  in  that  solitary  place.  Sac- 
rifice flashed  into  the  girl's  vision  —  a  sudden  ecstasy  of 
courage,  like  hot  flame.  These  abbey  folk  had  been  none 
too  gentle  with  her.  None  the  less  she  would  essay  to 
save  them. 

She  cast  Claudia's  hand  aside,  and  turned  away  abruptly 
from  the  rest.  They  wavered,  looking  at  her  as  though  for 
guidance,  too  flurried  for  sane  measures.  Igraine  waved 
them  on,  with  a  certain  pride  in  her  that  seemed  to  chant 
the  triumph  song  of  death. 

"  What  will  you  do,  girl  ?     Are  you  mad  ?  " 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  21 

"  Go  !  "  was  all  she  said.  "  Perhaps  you  will  pray  foi 
me  as  for  Gratia  the  abbess." 

«  They  will  kill  you  !  " 

"  Better  one  than  all." 

They  wavered,  unwilling  to  be  wholly  selfish  despite 
their  fear  and  the  sounding  of  pursuit.  There  shone  a  fine 
light  on  the  girl's  face  as  they  beheld  her  —  tyrannical  even 
in  heroism.  Her  look  awed  them  and  made  them  ashamed  ; 
yet  they  obeyed  her,  and  like  so  many  winging  birds  they 
fled  away  into  the  green  shadows. 

Igraine  watched  them  a  moment,  saw  the  grey  flicker  of 
their  gowns  go  amid  the  trees,  and  then  turned  to  front  her 
fortune.  Pursing  her  lips  into  a  queer  smile,  she  took  post 
behind  a  tree  bole,  and  waited  with  an  arrow  fitted  to  her 
string.  She  heard  a  sluthering  babel  as  the  men  reined  in, 
with  much  shouting,  on  the  forest's  margin.  They  were 
very  near  now.  Even  as  she  peered  round  her  tree  trunk 
a  figure  on  foot  flashed  into  the  grass  ride,  and  came  on 
at  the  trot.  The  bow  snapped,  the  arrow  streaked  the 
shadows,  and  hummed  cheerily  into  the  man's  thigh. 
Igraine  had  not  hunted  for  nothing.  A  second  fellow  edged 
into  view,  and  took  the  point  in  his  shoulder.  Igraine 
darted  back  some  forty  paces  and  waited  for  more. 

In  this  fashion  —  slipping  from  tree  to  tree,  and  edging 
north-west  —  she  held  them  for  a  furlong  or  more.  The 
end  came  soon  with  an  empty  quiver.  The  wood  seemed 
full  of  armed  men  ;  they  were  too  speedy  for  her,  too  near 
to  her  for  flight.  She  threw  the  empty  quiver  at  her  feet, 
with  the  bow  athwart  it,  put  a  hand  in  the  breast  of  her 
habit,  and  waited.  It  was  not  for  long.  A  man  ran  out 
from  behind  a  tree  and  came  to  a  curt  halt  fronting  her. 

He  was  young,  burly,  with  a  great  tangle  of  hair,  and  a 
yellow  beard  that  bristled  like  a  hound's  collar.  A  naked 
sword  was  in  his  hand,  a  buckler  strapped  between  his 
shoulders.  He  laughed  when  he  saw  the  girl  —  the  coarse 
laugh  of  a  Teuton  —  and  came  some  paces  nearer  to  her, 
staring  in  her  face.  She  was  very  rich  and  comely  in  a  way 


22  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

foreign  to  the  fellow's  fancy.  There  was  that  in  his 
eyes  that  said  as  much.  He  laughed  again,  with  a 
guttural  oath,  and  stretched  out  a  hand  to  grip  the  girl's 
shoulder. 

An  instant  shimmer  of  steel,  and  Igraine  had  smitten  him 
above  the  golden  torque  that  ringed  his  throat.  Life  rushed 
out  in  a  red  fountain.  He  went  back  from  her  with  a 
stagger,  clutching  at  the  place,  and  cursing.  As  the  blood 
ebbed  he  dropped  to  his  knees,  and  thence  fell  slantwise 
against  a  tree.  He  had  found  death  in  that  stroke. 

A  hand  closed  on  the  girl's  wrist.  The  knife  that  had 
been  turned  towards  her  own  heart  was  smitten  away  and 
spurned  to  a  distance.  There  were  men  all  about  her  — 
ogrish  folk,  moustachioed,  jerkined  in  skins,  bare  armed, 
bare  legged.  Igraine  stood  like  a  statue  —  impotent  — 
frozen  into  a  species  of  apathy.  The  bearded  faces  thronged 
her,  gaped  at  her  with  a  gross  solemnity.  She  had  no  glance 
for  them,  but  thought  only  of  the  man  twitching  in  the  death 
trance.  The  wood  seemed  full  of  gruff  voices,  of  grotesque 
words  mouthed  through  hair. 

Then  the  barbaric  circle  rippled  and  parted.  A  rugged- 
faced  old  man  with  white  hair  and  beard  came  forward 
slowly.  There  was  a  tense  silence  over  the  throng  as  the 
old  man  stood  and  looked  at  the  figure  at  his  feet.  There 
were  shadows  on  the  earl's  face,  and  his  hands  shook,  for 
the  smitten  man  was  his  son. 

Out  of  silence  grew  clamour.  Hands  were  raised,  fingers 
pointed,  a  sword  was  poised  tentatively  above  the  girl's  head. 
The  wood  seemed  full  of  bearded  and  grotesque  wrath,  and 
the  hollow  aisles  rang  with  the  clash  of  sword  on  buckler. 
But  age  was  not  for  sudden  violence,  though  the  blood  of 
youth  ebbed  on  the  grass.  The  old  man  pointed  to  a  tree, 
spoke  briefly,  quietly,  and  the  rough  warriors  obeyed  him. 

They  stripped  Igraine,  cast  her  clothes  at  her  feet,  and 
bound  her  to  the  trunk  of  the  tree  with  their  girdles.  Then 
they  took  up  the  body  of  the  dead  man,  and  so  departed 
into  the  forest. 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  23 


III 

IT  was  well  towards  evening  when  the  men  disappeared 
into  the  wood,  leaving  the  girl  bound  naked  to  the  tree. 
The  day  was  calm  and  tranquil,  with  the  mood  of  June  on 
the  wind,  and  a  benign  sky  above.  Igraine's  hair  had  fallen 
from  its  band,  and  now  hung  in  bronze  masses  well-nigh 
to  her  knees,  covering  her  as  with  a  cloak.  Her  habit,  shift, 
and  sandals  lay  close  beside  her  on  the  grass.  The  barbarians 
had  robbed  her  of  nothing,  according  to  their  old  earl's 
wishes.  She  was  simply  bound  there,  and  left  unscathed. 

When  the  men  were  gone,  and  she  began  to  realise  what 
had  passed,  she  felt  a  flush  spread  from  face  to  ankle,  a  glow 
of  shame  that  was  keen  as  fire.  Her  whole  body  seemed 
rosily  flaked  with  blushes.  The  very  trees  had  eyes,  and 
the  wind  seemed  to  whisper  mischief.  There  were  none  to 
see,  none  to  wonder,  and  yet  she  felt  like  Eve  in  Eden  when 
knowledge  had  smitten  the  pure  flesh  with  gradual  shame. 
Though  the  place  was  solitary  as  a  dry  planet,  her  aspen 
fancy  peopled  it  with  life.  She  could  still  see  the  heavy- 
jowled  barbaric  faces  staring  at  her  like  the  malign  masks 
of  a  dream. 

The  west  was  already  prophetic  of  night.  There  was 
the  golden  glow  of  the  decline  through  the  billowy  foliage 
of  the  trees,  and  the  shadows  were  very  still  and  reverent, 
for  the  day  was  passing.  A  beam  of  gold  slanted  down 
upon  Igraine's  breast,  and  slowly  died  there  amid  her  hair. 
The  west  flamed  and  faded,  the  east  grew  blind.  Soon  the 
day  was  not. 

Igraine  watched  the  light  faint  above  the  trees,  wondering 
in  her  heart  what  might  befall  her  before  another  sun  could 
set.  She  had  tried  her  bonds,  and  had  found  them  lacking 
sympathy  in  that  they  were  staunch  as  strength  could  make 
them.  She  was  cramped,  too,  and  began  to  long  for  the 
hated  habit  that  had  trailed  the  galleries  of  Avangel,  and 
had  brought  such  scorn  into  her  discontented  heart.  There 


24  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

was  no  hope  for  it.  She  was  pilloried  there,  bound  body, 
wrist,  and  ankle.  Philosophy  alone  remained  to  her,  a  poor 
enough  cloak  to  the  soul,  still  worse  for  things  tangible. 

Her  plight  gave  her  ample  time  for  meditation.  There 
were  many  chances  open  to  her,  and  even  in  mere  possibili- 
ties fate  had  her  at  a  vantage.  In  the  first  place,  she  might 
starve,  or  other  unsavoury  folk  find  her,  and  her  second 
state  be  worse  than  her  first.  Then  there  were  wolves  in 
the  wold  ;  or  country  people  might  find  and  release  her,  or 
even  Claudia  and  the  women  might  return  and  see  how  she 
had  fared.  There  was  little  comfort  in  this  last  thought. 
She  shrewdly  guessed  that  the  abbey  folk  would  not  stop 
till  they  happened  on  a  stone  wall,  or  the  heathen  took 
them.  Lastly,  the  road  was  at  no  very  great  distance,  and 
she  might  hear  perchance  if  any  one  passed  that  way. 

Presently  the  moon  rose  upon  Andredswold  with  a 
stupendous  splendour.  The  veil  of  night  seemed  dusted 
with  silver  as  it  swept  from  her  tiar  of  stars.  Innumerable 
glimmering  eyes  starred  the  foliage  of  the  beeches.  Vague 
lights  streamed  down  and  netted  the  shadows  with  mysteri- 
ous magic.  Here  and  there  a  tree  trunk  stood  like  a  ghost, 
splashed  with  a  phosphor  tunic. 

The  wilderness  was  soundless,  the  billowy  bastions  of 
the  trees  unruffled  by  a  breath.  The  hush  seemed  vast, 
irrefutable,  supreme.  Not  a  leaf  sighed,  not  a  wind  wandered 
in  its  sleep.  The  great  trees  stood  in  a  silver  stupor,  .and 
dreamt  of  the  moon.  The  solemn  aisles  were  still  as  Thebes 
at  midnight ;  the  smooth  boles  of  the  beeches  like  ebony 
beneath  canopies  of  jet. 

The  scene  held  Igraine  in  wonder.  There  was  a  mystery 
about  a  moonlit  forest  that  never  lessened  for  her.  The 
vasty  void  of  the  night,  untainted  by  a  sound,  seemed  like 
eternity  unfolded  above  her  ken.  She  forgot  her  plight  for 
the  time,  and  took  to  dreaming,  such  dreams  as  the  warm 
fancy  of  the  young  heart  loves  to  remember.  Perhaps 
beneath  such  a  benediction  she  thought  of  a  pavilion  set  amid 
water  lilies,  and  a  boy  who  had  looked  at  her  with  boyish 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  2$ 

eyes.  Yet  these  were  childish  things.  They  lost  substance 
before  the  chafing  of  the  cords  that  bound  her  to  the  tree. 

Presently  she  began  to  sing  softly  to  herself  for  the 
cheating  of  monotony.  She  was  growing  cold  and  hungry, 
too,  despite  all  the  magic  of  the  place,  and  the  hours  seemed 
to  drag  like  a  homily.  Then  with  a  gradual  stealthiness 
the  creeping  fear  of  death  and  the  unknown  began  to  steal 
in  and  cramp  even  her  buoyant  courage.  It  was  vain  for  her 
to  put  the  peril  from  her,  and  to  trust  to  day  and  the  succour 
that  she  vowed  in  her  heart  must  come.  Dread  smote  into 
her  more  cynically  than  did  the  night  air.  What  might  be 
her  end  ?  To  hang  there  parched,  starved,  delirious  till  life 
left  her ;  to  hang  there  still,  a  loathsome,  livid  thing,  rotting 
like  a  cloak.  To  be  torn  and  fed  upon  by  birds.  She  knew 
the  region  was  as  solitary  as  death,  and  that  the  heathen  had 
emptied  it  of  the  living.  The  picture  grew  upon  her  dis- 
traught imagination  till  she  feared  to  look  on  it  lest  it  should 
be  the  lurid  truth. 

It  was  about  midnight,  and  she  was  beginning  to  quake 
with  cold,  when  a  sound  stumbled  suddenly  out  of  silence, 
and  set  her  listening.  It  dwindled  and  grew  again,  came 
nearer,  became  rhythmic,  and  ringing  in  the  keen  air. 
Igraine  soon  had  no  doubts  as  to  its  nature.  It  was  the 
steady  smite  of  hoofs  on  the  high-road,  the  rhythm  of  a 
horse  walking. 

Now  was  her  chance  if  she  dared  risk  the  character  of 
the  rider.  Doubts  flashed  before  her  a  moment,  hovered, 
and  then  merged  into  decision.  Better  to  risk  the  unknown, 
she  thought,  than  tempt  starvation  tied  to  the  tree.  She 
made  her  choice  and  acted. 

"  Help,  there  !      Help  !  " 

The  words  went  like  silver  through  the  woods.  Igraine, 
listening  hungrily,  strained  forward  at  her  bonds  to  catch 
the  answer  that  might  come  to  her.  The  sound  of  hoofs 
ceased,  and  gave  place  to  silence.  Possibly  the  rider  was 
in  doubt  as  to  the  testimony  of  his  own  hearing.  Igraine 
called  again,  and  again  waited. 


26  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Stillness  held.  Then  there  was  a  stir,  and  a  crackling  as 
of  trampled  brushwood,  followed  by  the  snort  of  a  horse 
and  the  thrill  of  steel.  The  sounds  came  nearer,  with  the 
deadened  tramp  of  hoofs  for  an  underchant.  Igraine,  full  of 
hope  and  fear,  of  doubt  and  gratitude,  kept  calling  for  his 
guidance.  Presently  a  cry  came  back  to  her  in  turn. 

"  By  the  holy  cross,  who  are  you  that  calls  ? " 

"A  woman,"  she  cried  in  turn,  "bound  here  by  the 
heathen." 

"  Where  ? " 

"  Here,  in  a  grass  ride,  tied  to  a  tree." 

The  words  that  had  come  to  her  were  very  welcome, 
heralding,  as  they  did,  a  friend,  at  least  in  race,  and  there 
was  a  manly  depth  in  the  voice,  too,  that  gave  her  comfort. 
She  saw  a  glimmer  of  steel  in  the  shadows  of  the  wood  as 
man  and  horse  drew  into  being  from  the  darkness.  Moon- 
light played  fitfully  upon  them,  weaving  silver  gleams  amid 
a  smoke  of  gloom,  making  a  white  mist  about  the  man's 
great  horse.  A  single  ray  burnt  and  blazed  like  a  halo 
about  the  rider's  casque,  and  his  spear-point  flickered  like  a 
star  beneath  the  vaultings  of  the  trees.  He  had  halted,  a 
solitary  figure  wrapped  round  with  night,  and  rendered 
grand  and  wizard  by  the  misty  web  of  the  moon. 

The  sight  was  pathetic  enough,  yet  infinitely  fair. 
Light  streamed  through,  and  fell  full  upon  the  tree  where 
Igraine  stood.  The  girl's  limbs  were  white  and  luminous 
against  the  dark  bosom  of  the  beech,  and  her  rich  hair  fell 
about  her  like  mist.  As  for  the  strange  rider,  he  could  at 
least  claim  the  inspiration  accorded  to  a  Christian.  The 
servant  of  the  Galilean  has,  like  Constantine,  a  symbol  in 
the  sky,  prophetic  in  all  need,  generous  of  all  guidance. 
The  Cross  is  a  perpetual  Delphi  oracular  on  trivial  matters 
as  on  the  destinies  of  kingdoms.  The  man  dismounted, 
knelt  for  a  moment  with  sword  held  before  him,  and  then 
rose  and  strode  to  the  tree  with  shield  held  before  his 
face. 

Igraine  was    looking    at    the   figure  in  armour,  kindly, 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  27 

redly,  from  amid  the  masses  of  her  hair.  The  small  noble- 
nesses of  his  bearing  towards  her  had  won  her  trust  with  a 
flush  of  gratitude.  The  man  saw  only  the  white  feet  like 
marble  amid  the  moss  as  he  cut  the  thongs  where  they 
circled  the  tree.  The  bands  fell,  he  saw  the  white  feet 
flicker,  a  trail  of  hair  waving  under  his  shield.  Then  he 
turned  on  his  heel  without  a  word,  and  went  to  tether  his 
horse. 

The  interlude  was  as  considerate  as  courtesy  had  in- 
tended. Igraine  darted  for  her  habit  with  a  rapturous  sigh. 
When  the  man  turned  leisurely  again,  a  tall  girl  met  him, 
cloaked  in  grey,  with  her  hair  still  hanging  about  her,  and 
sandals  on  her  feet. 

"  Mother  Virgin,  a  nun  !  " 

The  words  seemed  sudden  as  an  echo.  Igraine  bent  her 
head  to  hide  the  half-abashed,  half-smiling  look  upon  her 
face.  It  had  been  thus  at  Avangel.  Nun  and  novice  had 
worn  like  habits,  and  there  had  been  nothing  to  distinguish 
them  save  the  final  solemn  vow.  The  man's  notions  were 
plainly  celibate,  and,  with  a  sudden  twinkling  inspiration, 
she  fancied  they  should  bide  so.  It  would  make  matters 
smoother  for  them  both,  she  thought. . 

"  My  prayers  are  yours,  daily,  for  this  service,"  she  said. 

The  man  bent  his  head  to  her. 

"I  am  thankful,  madame,"  he  answered,  "that  I  should 
have  been  so  good  fortuned  as  to  be  able  to  befriend  you. 
How  came  you  by  such  evil  hazard  ?  " 

11 1  was  of  Avangel,"  she  said. 

"  You  speak  as  of  the  past,"  quoth  he,  with  a  keen 
look. 

"  Avangel  was  burnt  and  sacked  but  yesterday,"  she  said. 
"  Many  of  the  nuns  were  martyred  ;  some  few  escaped.  I 
was  made  captive  here,  and  bound  to  this  tree  by  the 
heathen." 

Igraine  could  see  the  man's  face  darken  even  in  the 
moonlight,  as  though  pain  and  wrath  held  mute  con- 
federacy there.  He  crossed  himself,  and  then  stood 


28  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

with  both  hands  on  the  pommel  of  his  sword,  stately  and 
statuesque. 

"  And  the  Lady  Gratia  ?  "   he  said. 

"  Dead,  I  fear." 

A  half-heard  groan  seemed  to  come  from  the  man's 
helmet.  He  bent  his  head  into  the  shadows  and  stood  stiff 
and  silent  as  though  smitten  into  thought.  Presently  he 
seemed  to  remember  himself,  Igraine,  and  the  occasion. 

"  And  yourself,  madame  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  twinge  of 
tenderness  in  his  voice. 

The  girl  blushed,  and  nearly  stammered. 

"I  am  unscathed,"  she  hastened  to  say,  "thanks  to  heaven. 
I  am  safe  and  whole  as  if  I  had  spent  the  day  in  a  convent 
cell.  My  name  is  Igraine,  if  you  would  know  it.  I  fear 
I  have  told  you  heavy  tidings." 

The  man  turned  his  face  to  the  sky  like  one  who  looks 
into  other  worlds. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  gazing  into  the  night ;  "  nothing 
but  what  we  must  look  for  in  these  stark  days.  Our  altars 
smoke,  our  blood  is  spilt,  and  yet  we  still  pray.  Yet  may  I 
be  cursed,  and  cursed  again,  if  I  do  not  dye  my  sword  for 
this." 

There  was  a  sudden  bleak  fierceness  in  his  voice  that 
betrayed  his  fibre  and  the  strong  thoughts  that  were 
stirring  in  his  heart  that  moment.  His  face  looked  almost 
fanatical  in  the  cold  gloom,  gaunt,  heavy-jawed,  lion-like. 
Igraine  watched  this  thunder-cloud  of  thought  and  passion 
in  silence,  thinking  she  would  meet  the  man  in  the  wrack 
of  life  rather  as  friend  than  as  foe.  The  brief  mood  seemed 
to  pass,  or  at  least  to  lose  expression.  Again,  there  was 
that  in  the  kindness  of  his  face  that  made  the  girl  feel 
beneath  the  eye  of  a  brother. 

"  You  will  ride  with  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

Igraine  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  was  for  Anderida,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  only  three 
leagues  distant.  Now  that  I  am  free  I  can  go  through  the 
wold  alone,  for  I  am  no  child." 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  29 

"  An  insult  to  my  manhood,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  But  the  heathen  are  everywhere,  and  I  should  but 
cumber  you." 

"  Madame,  you  talk  like  a  fool." 

There  was  a  sheer  sincerity  about  the  speech  that  pleased 
Igraine.  His  spirit  seemed  to  overtop  hers,  and  to  silence 
argument.  Proud  heart !  yet  without  thought  of  debate 
she  gave  way  in  the  most  placid  manner,  and  was  content 
to  be  shepherded. 

"I  might  walk  at  your  stirrup,"  she  said  meekly. 

The  man  seemed  to  ponder.  He  merely  looked  at  her 
with  dark,  solemn  eyes,  showing  a  quiet  disregard  for  her 
humility. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  "  you,  a  woman,  must  not 
attempt  Anderida  alone.  The  town  will  be  beleaguered, 
or  I  am  no  prophet.  To  Anderida  I  cannot  go,  for  I  have 
folk  at  Winchester  who  wait  my  coming.  If  you  can  put 
trust  in  me,  and  will  ride  with  me  to  Winchester,  you  will 
find  harbour  there." 

She  considered  a  moment. 

"  Winchester,"  she  said,  "  yes,  and  most  certainly  I  trust 
you." 

The  man  stretched  out  a  hand  to  her  with  a  smile. 

"  God  willing,"  he  said,  "  I  will  bear  you  safe  to  the 
place.  As  for  your  frocks  and  vows,  they  must  follow 
necessity,  and  pocket  their  pride.  It  will  not  damn  you 
to  ride  before  a  man." 

"  I  trow  not,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh  that  seemed  to 
make  the  leaves  quiver.  So  they  took  horse  together,  and 
rode  out  from  the  beech  wood  into  the  moonlight. 


IV 

WHEN  they  were  clear  of  the  solemn  beeches,  and  saw  the 
road  white  as  white  before  them,  Igraine  began  to  tell  the 
man  of  the  doom  of  Avangel,  and  the  great  end  made  by 


30  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

Gratia  the  abbess.  The  knight  had  folded  his  red  cloak 
and  spread  it  for  her  comfort.  Her  tale  seemed  very 
welcome  to  him  despite  its  grievous  humour,  and  he 
questioned  her  much  concerning  Gratia,  her  goodness  and 
her  charity.  Now  it  had  been  well  known  in  Avangel  that 
Gratia  had  come  of  noble  and  excellent  descent,  and  seeing 
that  this  stranger  had  been  familiar  with  her  in  the  past, 
Igraine  guessed  shrewdly  that  he  himself  was  of  some 
ancient  and  goodly  stock.  To  tell  the  truth,  she  was  very 
curious  concerning  him,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she 
found  a  speech  ready  to  her  tongue  likely  to  draw  some 
confession  from  his  lips. 

"  I  have  promised  to  pray  for  you,"  she  said,  "  and  pray 
for  you  I  will,  seeing  that  you  have  done  me  so  great  a 
blessing  to-night.  When  I  bow  to  the  Virgin  and  the 
Saints,  what  name  may  I  remember  ?  " 

The  man  did  not  look  at  her,  for  her  face  was  in  the 
shadow  of  her  hood  and  his  clear  and  white  in  the  light  of 
the  moon. 

"  To  some  I  am  known  as  Sir  Pelleas,"  he  said. 

"  And  to  me  ?  " 

"  As  Sir  Pelleas,  if  it  please  you,  madame." 

Igraine  understood  that  she  was  to  be  pleased  with  the 
name,  whether  she  liked  it  or  not. 

"  Then  for  Sir  Pelleas  I  will  pray,"  she  said,  "  and  may 
my  gratitude  avail  him." 

There  was  silence  for  a  space,  broken  by  the  rhythmic 
play  of  hoofs  upon  the  road,  and  the  dull  jar  of  steel. 
Igraine  was  meditating  further  catechism,  adapting  her 
questions  for  the  knowledge  she  wished  for. 

"  You  ride  errant,"  she  said  presently. 

u  I  ride  alone,  madame." 

"  The  wold  is  a  rude  region  set  thick  with  perils." 

"  Very  true,"  quoth  the  man. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  a  venturesome  spirit." 

"  I  believe  that  I  am  often  as  careful  as  death," 

Igraine  made  her  culminating  suggestion. 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  31 

"Some  high  deed  must  have  been  in  your  heart," 
she  said,  "or  probably  you  would  not  have  risked  so 
much." 

The  man  Pelleas  did  not  even  look  at  her.  She  felt  the 
bridle-arm  that  half  held  her  tighten  unconsciously,  as 
though  he  were  steeling  himself  against  her  curiosity. 

"Madame,"  he  said  very  gravely,  "every  man's  business 
should  be  for  his  own  heart,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  have 
any  need  to  share  the  right  or  wrong  of  mine  with  others. 
It  is  a  grand  thing  to  be  able  to  keep  one's  own  counsel. 
It  is  enough  for  you  to  know  my  name." 

Igraine  none  the  less  was  not  a  bit  abashed. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  would  hear,"  she  said,  "  and  that 
is  how  you  came  to  know  of  the  abbess  Gratia." 

For  the  moment  the  man  looked  black,  and  his  lips  were 
stern  — 

"You  may  know  if  you  wish,"  he  said. 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Madame,  the  Lady  Gratia  was  my  mother." 

Igraine  felt  a  flood  of  sudden  shame  burst  redly  into  her 
heart.  Gratia  was  the  man's  mother,  and  she  had  been 
plying  him  with  questions,  cruelly  curious.  She  caught  a 
short,  shallow  breath,  and  hung  her  head,  shrinking  like  a 
prodigal. 

"  Set  me  down,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not  worthy  to  ride 
with  you." 

"  Pardon  me,"  quoth  the  man  ;  "  you  did  not  think,  not 
knowing  I  was  in  pain." 

"  Set  me  down,"  was  all  she  said  ;  "  set  me  down  —  set 
me  down." 

The  man  Pelleas  changed  his  tone. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  gentleness  that  made 
her  desire  to  weep,  "  I  have  forgiven  you.  What,  then, 
does  it  matter  ?  " 

Igraine  hung  her  head. 

"  I  am  altogether  ashamed,"  she  said. 

She  drew  her  hood  well   over  her  face,  and  took  her 


32  UTHER  AND  ICRAINE 

reproof  to  heart  like  a  veritable  penitent.  Even  religious 
solemnities  make  little  change  in  the  notorious  weaknesses 
of  woman.  Igraine  was  angry,  not  only  for  having  blun- 
dered clumsily  against  the  man's  sorrow,  but  also  because 
of  the  somewhat  graceless  part  she  seemed  to  have  played 
after  the  deliverance  he  had  vouchsafed  her.  As  yet  her 
character  seemed  to  have  lost  honour  fast  by  mere  brief 
contrast  with  the  man's. 

Pelleas  meanwhile  rode  with  eyes  watching  the  wan 
stretch  of  road  to  the  west.  On  either  hand  the  woods 
rose  up  like  nebulous  hills  bowelled  by  tunnelled  mysteries 
of  gloom.  He  had  turned  his  horse  to  the  grass  beside  the 
roadway,  so  that  the  tramp  of  hoofs  should  fall  muffled  on 
the  air.  Igraine,  close  against  his  steeled  breast,  with  his 
bridle-arm  about  her,  looked  into  his  face  from  the  shadows 
of  her  hood,  and  found  much  to  initiate  her  liking. 

If  she  loved  strength,  it  was  there.  If  she  desired  the 
grand  reserve  of  silent  vigour,  it  was  there  also.  The 
deeply  caverned  eyes  watching  through  the  night  seemed 
dark  with  a  quiet  destiny.  The  large,  finely  moulded  face, 
gaunt  and  white  in  its  meditative  repose,  seemed  fit  to 
front  the  ruins  of  a  stricken  land.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man 
who  had  watched  and  striven,  who  had  followed  truth  like 
a  shadow,  and  had  found  the  light  of  life  in  the  heavens. 
There  was  bitterness  there,  pain,  and  the  ghost  of  a  sad 
desire  that  had  pleaded  with  death.  The  face  would  have 
seemed  morose,  but  for  a  certain  something  that  made  its 
shadows  kind. 

Instinctively,  as  she  watched  the  mask  of  thought 
beneath  the  dark  arch  of  his  open  casque,  she  felt  that  he 
had  memories  in  his  heart  at  that  moment.  His  thoughts 
were  not  for  her,  however  much  she  pitied  him  or  longed 
to  tell  him  of  her  shame  and  sympathy.  Nothing  could 
come  into  that  sad  session  of  remembrances,  save  the  soul 
of  the  man  and  the  memories  of  his  mother.  That  he  was 
grieving  deeply  Igraine  knew  well.  His  was  a  strong 
nature  that  brooded  in  silence,  and  felt  the  more ;  it  must 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  33 

be  a  terrible  thing,  she  thought,  to  have  the  martyrdom 
of  a  mother  haunting  the  heart  like  a  fell  dream  at  night. 

Slipping  from  such  a  reverie,  the  turmoil  and  weariness 
of  the  past  days  returned  to  take  their  tribute.  Despite 
the  strangeness  of  the  night,  Igraine  began  to  feel  sleepy  as 
a  tired  child.  The  magnetic  calm  of  the  man  beside  her 
seemed  to  lull  to  slumber,  while  the  motion  of  the  ride 
cradled  her  the  more.  The  noise  of  hoofs,  the  dull  clink 
of  scabbard  against  spur  or  harness,  grew  faint  and  faint. 
The  woods  seemed  to  swim  into  a  mist  of  silver.  'She  saw, 
as  in  a  dream,  the  strong  face  above  her  staring  calmly  into 
the  night,  the  long  spear  poised  heavenwards.  Her  head 
was  on  the  man's  shoulder.  With  scarcely  a  thought  she 
was  asleep. 

It  was  then  that  Pelleas  discovered  the  girl  heavy  in  his 
arms,  and  looked  down  to  find  her  sleeping,  with  hood  fallen 
and  a  white  face  turned  peacefully  to  his.  Strangely  enough, 
the  sorrow  that  had  taken  him  seemed  to  make  his  senses 
vibrate  strongly  to  the  more  human  things  of  life.  The 
supple  warmth  of  the  girl's  slim  body  crept  up  the  sinews 
of  his  arm  like  a  subtle  flame.  From  her  half-parted  lips 
the  sigh  of  her  breathing  came  into  his  bosom.  Over  his 
harness  clouded  her  hair,  and  her  two  hands  had  fastened 
themselves  upon  his  sword-belt  with  a  restful  trust. 

The  man  bent  his  head  and  watched  her  in  some  awe. 
Her  lips  were  like  autumn  fruit  fed  wistfully  on  moonlight. 
To  Pelleas,  woman  was  still  wonderful,  a  creature  to  be 
touched  with  reverence  and  soft  delight.  The  drab,  the 
scold,  and  the  harlot  had  failed  to  debase  the  ideals  of  a 
staunch  spirit,  and  the  fair  flesh  at  his  breast  was  as  full  of 
mystery  as  a  woman  could  be. 

He  took  his  fill  of  gazing,  feeling  half  ashamed  of  the 
deed,  and  half  dreading  lest  Igraine  should  wake  suddenly 
and  look  deeply  into  his  eyes.  He  felt  his  flesh  creep  with 
magic  when  she  stirred  or  sighed,  or  when  the  hands  upon 
his  belt  twitched  in  their  slumber.  Pelleas  had  seen  stark 
things  of  late,  burnt  hamlets,  priests  slaughtered  and  churches 


34  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

in  flames,  children  dead  in  the  trampled  places  of  the  slain. 
He  had  ridden  where  smoke  ebbed  heavenwards,  and  blood 
clotted  the  green  grass.  Now  this  ride  beneath  the  quiet 
eyes  of  night,  with  the  bosomed  silence  of  the  woods  around, 
and  this  lily  plucked  from  death  in  his  arms,  seemed  like  a 
passage  of  calm  after  a  page  of  tempest.  Little  wonder  that 
he  looked  long  into  the  girl's  face,  and  thrilled  to  the  soft 
sway  of  her  bosom.  He  thanked  God  in  his  heart  that  he 
had  plucked  her  blemishless  from  gradual  death.  It  was 
even  thus,  he  thought,  that  a  good  soldier  should  ride  into 
Paradise  bearing  the  soul  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

Igraine  stirred  little  in  her  sleep.  "  Poor  child,"  thought 
Pelleas,  "  she  has  suffered  much,  has  feared  death,  and  is 
weary.  Let  her  sleep  the  night  through  if  she  can."  So 
he  drew  the  cloak  gently  about  her,  said  his  prayers  in  his 
heart,  and,  holding  as  much  as  possible  under  the  shadows 
of  the  trees,  kept  watch  patiently  on  the  track  before  him. 

All  that  night  Pelleas  rode,  thinking  of  his  mother,  with 
the  girl  sleeping  in  his  arms.  He  saw  the  moon  go  down 
in  the  west,  while  the  grey  mist  of  the  hour  before  dawn 
made  the  forest  gaunt  like  an  abode  of  the  dead.  He  heard 
the  birds  wake  in  brake  and  thicket.  He  saw  the  red  deer 
scamper,  frightened  into  the  glooms,  and  the  rabbits  scurry- 
ing amid  the  bracken.  When  the  east  mellowed  he  found 
himself  in  fair  meadowlands  lying  locked  in  the  depths  of 
the  wold,  where  flowers  were  thick  as  on  some  rich  tapestry, 
and  where  the  scent  of  dawn  was  as  the  incense  of  many 
temples.  With  a  calm  sorrow  for  the  dead  he  rode  on, 
threading  the  meadowland,  till  the  girl  woke  and  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  a  little  sigh.  Then  he  smiled  at  her  half 
sadly,  and  wished  her  good-morning. 

Igraine,  wide-eyed,  looked  round  in  a  daze. 

"  Day  ?  "  she  said,  "  and  meadows  ?  It  was  moonlight 
when  I  fell  asleep." 

"It  has  dawned  an  hour  or  more." 

"Then  I  have  slept  the  night  through?  You  must  be 
tired  to  death,  and  stiff  with  holding  me." 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  35 

"  Not  so,"  said  Pelleas. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  been  selfish,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
asleep  before  I  could  think.  Have  you  ridden  all  night  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  quoth  he,  with  a  smile, "  and  not  a  soul  have 
I  seen.  I  have  been  watching  your  face  and  the  moon." 

Igraine  coloured  slightly,  and  looked  sideways  at  him 
from  under  her  long  lashes.  Her  sleep  had  chastened  her, 
and  she  felt  blithe  as  a  bird,  and  ready  to  sing.  Putting 
the  man's  scarlet  cloak  from  her,  she  shook  her  hair  from 
her  shoulders,  and  sprang  lightly  from  her  seat  to  the  grass. 

"  I  will  run  at  your  side  awhile,"  she  said,  "  and  so  rest 
you.  Perhaps  you  will  halt  presently,  and  sleep  an  hour  or 
two  under  a  tree.  I  can  watch  and  keep  guard  with  your 
sword." 

Pelleas  smiled  down  at  her  like  the  sun  from  behind  a 
cloud. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said  ;  "a  soldier  needs  no  sleep  for  a  week, 
and  I  feel  lusty  as  Christopher.  We  will  go  awhile  before 
breakfast,  if  it  please  you.  There  is  a  stream  near  where  I 
can  water  my  horse,  and  we  can  make  a  meal  from  such 
stuff  as  I  have.  When  you  are  tired,  tell  me,  and  I  will 
mount  you  here  again." 

She  nodded  at  him  gravely.  Grass  and  flowers  were  well- 
nigh  to  her  waist.  Her  gown  shook  showers  of  dew  from 
the  feathery  hay.  Foxgloves  rose  like  purple  rods  amid  the 
snow  webs  of  the  wild  daisy.  Tangled  domes  of  dogrose 
and  honeysuckle  lined  the  white  track,  and  there  were 
countless  harebells  lying  like  a  deep  blue  haze  under  the 
green  shadows  of  the  grass. 

Presently  they  came  to  where  red  poppies  grew  thickly 
in  the  golden  meads.  Igraine  ran  in  among  them,  and 
began  to  make  a  great  posy,  while  Pelleas  watched  her  as 
her  grey  gown  went  amid  the  green  and  red.  In  due  course 
she  came  back  to  him  holding  her  flowers  in  her  bosom. 

"  Scarlet  is  your  colour,"  she  said,  "  and  these  are  the 
flowers  of  sleep  and  of  dreams  for  those  that  grieve.  Hold 
them  in  the  hollow  of  your  shield  for  me." 


36  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Pelleas  obeyed  her  mutely.  She  began  to  sing  a  soft 
slumberous  dirge  while  she  walked  beside  the  great  black 
horse  and  plaited  the  flowers  into  its  mane.  The  man 
watched  her  with  a  kind  of  wondering  pain.  The  song 
seemed  to  wake  echoes  in  him,  like  sea  surges  wake  in  the 
caverns  of  a  cliff".  He  understood  Igraine's  grace  to  him, 
and  was  grateful  in  his  heart. 

"  How  long  were  you  mewed  in  Avangel  ?  "  he  said, 
presently. 

"  Long  enough,"  quoth  she,  betwixt  her  singing,  "  to 
learn  to  love  life." 

"  So  I  should  judge,"  said  Pelleas,  curtly. 

His  tone  disenchanted  her.  She  threw  the  rest  of  the 
flowers  aside,  and  walked  quietly  beside  him,  looking  up 
with  a  frank  seriousness  into  his  face. 

"  I  was  placed  there  by  my  parents,"  she  said,  by  way  of 
explanation,  "and  against  my  will,  for  I  had  no  hope  in  me 
to  be  a  nun.  But  the  times  were  wild,  and  my  father  —  a 
solemn  soul  —  thought  for  the  best." 

u  But  your  novitiate.     You  had  your  choice." 

u  I  had  my  choice,"  she  answered  vaguely.  "  Did  ever  a 
woman  choose  for  the  best  ?  Avangel  was  no  place  for  me." 

Pelleas  eyed  her  somewhat  sadly  from  his  higher  vantage. 
"  The  nun's  is  a  sorry  life,"  he  said,  "  when  her  thoughts 
fly  over  the  convent  walls." 

A  level  kindness  in  the  words  seemed  to  loose  her  tongue 
like  magic.  Twelve  long  months  had  her  sympathies  been 
outraged,  and  her  young  desires  crushed  by  the  heel  of  a 
so-called  godliness.  Never  had  so  kind  a  chance  for  the 
outpouring  of  her  discontent  come  to  her.  Women  love  an 
honest  grumble.  In  a  moment  all  her  bitterness  found  re'ady 
flight  into  the  man's  ears. 

"  I  hated  it ! "  she  said,  "  I  hated  it !  Avangel  had  no  hold 
on  me.  What  were  vigils,  penitences,  and  long  prayers  to 
a  girl  ?  They  made  us  kneel  on  stone,  and  sleep  on  boards. 
The  chapel  bell  seemed  to  ring  every  minute  of  the  day ; 
we  had  vile  food,  and  no  liberty.  It  was  Saint  This,  Saint 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  37 

That,  from  morning  till  night.  We  saw  no  men.  We 
might  never  dress  our  hair ;  and,  believe  me,  there  were  no 
mirrors.  I  had  to  go  to  a  little  pool  in  the  garden  to  see 
my  face. 

"  And  they  were  so  dull,  —  so  dismal.  No  one  ever 
laughed  ;  no  one  ever  told  romances  ;  all  our  legends  were 
of  pious  things  in  petticoats.  And  what  was  the  use  of  it 
all  ?  Was  any  one  ever  a  jot  the  better  ?  I  used  to  get 
into  my  cell  and  stamp.  I  felt  like  a  corpse  in  a  charnel- 
house,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  dead." 

Pelleas  scanned  her  half  smilingly,  half  sadly. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  your  heart,"  he  said. 

"  Sorry  !  You  needs  must  be  when  you  are  a  soldier, 
with  life  in  your  ears  like  a  clarion  cry." 

"  Life  is  a  sorry  ballad,  Sister  Igraine,  unless  we  remem- 
ber the  Cross." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  have  all  the  saints  in  mind  —  dear  souls;  but 
then,  Sir  Pelleas,  one  cannot  live  on  one's  knees.  I  was 
made  to  laugh  and  twinkle,  and  if  such  is  sin,  then  a  sorry 
nun  am  I." 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  said  the  man.  "  I  would  that 
a  Christian  held  his  course  over  the  world,  with  a  great  cross 
set  in  the  west  to  lead  him.  He  can  laugh  and  joy  as  he 
goes,  sleep  like  the  good,  and  take  the  fruits  of  life  in  his 
time.  Yet  ever  above  him  should  be  the  glory  of  the  cross, 
to  chasten,  purge,  and  purify.  There  is  no  sin  in  living 
merrily  if  we  live  well,  but  to  plot  for  pleasure  is  to  lose  it. 
Look  at  the  sun ;  there  is  no  need  for  us  to  be  ever  on  our 
knees  to  him,  yet  we  know  well  it  would  be  a  sorry  world 
without  his  comfort." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  with  a  little  gesture.  "  I  see  you  are  too 
devout  for  me,  despite  my  habit.  Take  me  up  again,  Sir 
Pelleas,  and  I  will  ride  with  you,  though  I  may  not  argue." 

Pelleas  halted  his  horse,  and  she  was  soon  in  the  saddle 
before  him,  somewhat  subdued  and  pensive  in  contrast  to 
her  former  vivacity.  The  man  believed  her  a  nun,  and  she 
had  a  character  to  play.  Well,  when  she  wearied  of  it, 


38  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

which  would  probably  be  soon,  she  could  tell  him  and  so  end 
the  matter.  It  was  not  long  before  they  came  to  the  ford 
across  the  stream  Pelleas  had  spoken  of.  It  was  a  green 
spot  shut  in  by  thorn  trees,  and  here  they  made  a  halt  as 
the  knight  had  purposed. 

Before  the  meal  Pelleas  knelt  by  the  stream  and  prayed. 
Igraine,  seeing  him  so  devout,  did  likewise,  though  her  eyes 
were  more  on  the  man  than  on  heaven.  Her  thoughts  never 
got  above  the  clouds.  When  they  were  at  their  meal  of 
meat  and  bread,  with  a  horn  of  water  from  the  stream,  she 
talked  yet  further  of  her  life  at  Avangel,  and  the  meagre 
blessing  it  had  been  to  her.  It  was  while  she  talked  thus 
that  she  saw  something  about  the  man's  person  that  fired  her 
memory,  and  set  her  thinking  of  the  journey  of  yesterday. 

Pelleas  was  wearing  a  gold  chain  that  bore  a  cross  hang- 
ing above  the  left  breast,  but  with  no  cross  over  the  right. 
Looking  more  keenly,  Igraine  saw  a  broken  link  still  hang- 
ing from  the  right  portion  of  the  chain.  Instinctively  her 
thoughts  fled  back  to  the  silent  manor  in  the  wood,  and  the 
dead  man  seated  stiffly  in  the  great  carved  chair. 

Without  duly  weighing  the  possible  gravity  of  her  words, 
she  began  to  tell  Pelleas  of  the  incident. 

"  Yesterday,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  a  strange  thing  as  we  fled 
through  the  wold.  We  came  to  a  villa,  and,  seeking  food 
there,  found  it  deserted,  save  for  a  dead  man  seated  in  a  chair, 
and  stricken  in  the  breast.  The  dead  man  had  a  small  gold 
cross  clutched  in  his  fingers,  and  there  was  a  dead  hound  at 
his  feet." 

The  man  gave  her  a  keen  look  from  the  depths  of  his 
dark  eyes,  and  then  glanced  at  the  broken  chain. 

"  You  see  that  I  have  lost  a  cross,"  he  said. 

Igraine  nodded. 

"  Your  reason  can  read  the  rest." 

She  nodded  again. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  the  truth." 

Igraine  stared  at  the  man  in  some  astonishment.  He 
was  cold  as  a  frost,  and  there  was  no  shadow  of  discomfort 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  39 

on  his  strong  face.  Knowledge  had  come  to  her  so  sharply 
that  she  had  no  answer  for  him  at  the  moment.  Yet  there 
stood  a  sublime  certainty  in  her  heart  that  this  violent  deed 
was  deserving  of  absolute  approval,  so  soon  had  her  faith  in 
him  become  like  steel. 

"  The  man  deserved  death,"  she  said  presently,  with  a  curt 
and  ingenuous  confidence. 

Pelleas  eyed  her  curiously. 

u  How  should  you  know  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  faith  in  you,"  was  all  she  said. 

Pelleas  smiled,  despite  the  subject. 

"  No  man  deserved  death  better." 

"  And  so  you  slew  him." 

He  nodded  without  looking  at  her,  and  she  could  see 
still  the  embers  of  wrath  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  slew  him  in  his  own  manor,  finding  him  alone,  and 
ready  to  justify  himself  with  lies.  Honour  does  not  love 
such  deeds ;  but  what  would  you  ?  —  Britain  is  free  of  a 
viper." 

"  And  you  have  blood  on  your  hand." 

He  winced  slightly,  and  glanced  at  his  fingers  as  though 
she  had  not  spoken  in  metaphor. 

"  All  is  blood  in  these  days,"  he  said. 

"  And  what  think  you  of  such  laws  ?  "  she  ventured,  with 
a  supreme  reaching  after  the  requirements  of  her  Order. 
"  What  of  the  Cross  ?  " 

"  There  was  blood  upon  it." 

"  But  the  blood  of  self-sacrifice." 

Her  words  moved  him  more  than  she  had  purposed.  His 
dark  face  flushed,  and  light  kindled  in  his  eyes  as  though 
the  basal  tenets  of  his  life  had  been  called  in  question.  He 
glowed  like  a  man  whose  very  creed  is  threatened.  Igraine 
watched  the  fire  rising  in  him  with  a  secret  pleasure,  —  the 

love  of  a  woman  for  the  hot  courage  of  a  man. 

- 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said  strongly  ;  "  which  think  you  is 
the  worthier  life  :  to  dream  in  a  stone  cell  mewed  from  the 
world  like  a  weak  weed  in  a  cellar,  or  to  go  forth  with  a 


40  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

red  heart  and  a  mellow  honour;  to  strive  and  smite  for  the 
weak  and  the  wounded  ;  to  right  the  wrong ;  to  avenge  the 
fatherless  ?  Choose  and  declare." 

u  Choose,"  she  said,  with  a  shrill  laugh  and  a  kindling 
colour,  "  truth,  and  I  will.  Away  with  the  rosary  ;  give  me 
the  sword." 

Like  a  wild  echo  to  her  human  choice  came  the  distant 
cry  of  a  horn  borne  hollowly  over  the  sleeping  meadows. 
Both  heard  it  and  started.  The  great  war-horse,  grazing 
near  by,  tossed  his  head,  snorted,  and  stood  listening  with 
ears  twitching  and  head  to  the  east.  Pelleas  rose  up  and 
scanned  the  road  from  under  his  hand,  with  the  girl  Igraine 
beside  him. 

"  A  Saxon  horn,"  he  said  laconically ;  "  the  heathen  are 
in  the  woods." 


As  they  watched,  looking  down  betwixt  two  thorn  trees, 
a  faint  puff  of  dust  rose  on  the  road  far  to  the  east,  and 
hung  like  a  diminutive  cloud  over  the  meadows.  This 
danger  signal  counselled  the  pair.  Pelleas  caught  his  horse 
and  sprang  to  selle ;  Igraine  clambered  by  his  stirrup,  and 
was  lifted  to  her  seat  before  him.  Pelleas  slung  his  shield 
forward,  and  loosened  his  sword. 

"  If  it  comes  to  battle,"  he  said,  "  I  will  set  you  down, 
and  you  must  hide  in  the  meadows  or  woods,  while  I  fight. 
You  would  but  cumber  me,  and  be  in  great  peril  here. 
Rest  assured,  though,  that  I  shall  not  desert  you  while  I 
live." 

With  that  he  turned  his  horse  to  the  road,  and  halted, 
gazing  down  amid  the  placid  fields  to  where  the  little  cloud 
of  dust  had  hinted  at  life.  It  was  there  still,  only  larger, 
and  sounded  on  by  the  distant  triple  canter  of  horses  at  the 
gallop.  Pelleas  and  Igraine  could  see  three  mounted  figures 
coming  up  the  road  amid  a  white  haze,  moving  fast,  as 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  41 

though  pressed  by  some  as  yet  unseen  enemy.  It  was  soon 
evident  to  Pelleas  and  the  girl  that  one  of  the  fugitives  was 
a  woman. 

"  We  will  abide  them,"  said  the  man,  "  and  learn  their 
peril.  We  shall  be  stronger,  too,  for  company,  and  may 
succour  one  another  if  it  comes  to  smiting.  Look  !  yonder 
comes  the  heathen  pack." 

A  second  and  larger  cloud  of  dust  had  appeared,  a  mile 
or  less  beyond  the  first.  Pelleas  watched  it  awhile,  and  then 
turned  and  began  riding  at  a  trot  towards  the  west,  so  that 
the  three  fugitives  should  overtake  him.  He  bade  Igraine 
keep  watch  over  his  shoulder  while  he  scanned  the  meadows 
before  them  for  sign  of  peril  or  of  friendly  harbour. 

"  Have  no  fear,  child,"  he  said ;  u  I  could  vow,  by  these  , 
fields,  that  there  is  a  manor  near.     I  trust  confidently  that 
we  shall  find  refuge." 

Igraine  smiled  at  him. 

"  I  am  no  coward,"  she  said. 

11  That  is  well  spoken." 

"  I  would,  though,  that  you  would  give  me  your  dagger, 
so  that,  if  things  come  to  an  evil  pass,  I  shall  know  how  to 
quit  myself." 

"  My  dagger  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sudden  stare.  "  I  left  it 
in  the  man's  heart  in  Andredswold." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Igraine  ;  "  then  I  must  do  without." 

The  dull  thunder  of  the  nearing  gallop  came  up  to  them 
—  a  stirring  sound,  full  of  terse  life  and  eager  hazard.  Pel- 
leas  spurred  to  a  canter,  while  Igraine's  hair  blew  about  his 
face  and  helmet  as  they  began  to  meet  the  kiss  of  the  wind. 
She  clung  fast  to  him  with  both  hands,  and  told  what  was 
passing  on  the  road  in  their  rear. 

"  How  they  ride,"  she  said  ;  "  a  tangle  of  dust  and  whirl- 
ing hoofs.  There  is  a  lady  in  blue  on  a  white  horse,  with 
an  armed  man  on  either  flank.  They  are  very  near  now. 
I  can  see  the  heathen  far  away  over  the  meadows.  They 
are  galloping,  too,  in  a  smoke  of  dust.  Our  folk  will  be 
with  us  soon." 


42  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

In  a  minute  the  lady  and  her  men  were  hurtling  close  in 
Pelleas's  wake.  He  spurred  to  a  gallop  in  turn,  and  bade 
Igraine  wave  them  on  to  his  side.  The  three  were  soon 
with  them,  stride  for  stride.  The  girl  on  the  white  horse 
drew  up  on  Pelleas's  right  flank.  She  was  habited  in  blue 
and  silver  —  a  flaxen-haired  damosel,  with  the  round  face  of 
a  child.  Seemingly  she  was  possessed  of  little  hardihood, 
for  her  mouth  was  a  red  streak  in  a  waste  of  white,  and  her 
blue  eyes  so  full  of  fear  that  Igraine  pitied  her.  She  cried 
shrilly  to  Pelleas,  her  voice  rising  above  the  din  like  the  cry 
of  a  frightened  bird. 

u  The  heathen  !  "  she  cried. 

"  Many  ?  "   shouted  the  man. 

"  Two  score  or  more.  There  is  a  strong  manor  near. 
If  we  gain  it  we  may  live." 

«  How  far  ?  " 

"  Not  a  mile  over  the  meadows." 

u  Lead  on,"  said  Pelleas ;  "  we  will  follow  as  we  may." 

The  damosel  on  the  white  horse  turned  from  the  road, 
and  headed  southwards  over  the  meadows,  with  her  men 
galloping  beside  her.  The  long  grass  swayed,  water-like, 
before  them,  its  summer  seed  flying  like  a  mist  of  dew. 
Wood  and  pasture  slid  back  on  either  hand.  The  ground 
seemed  to  rise  and  fall  before  them  as  a  sea,  while 
rocks  here  and  there  thrust  up  blufF  noses  in  the  grass 
like  great  lizards  stirred  by  the  hurtling  thunder  of  the 
gallop. 

On  they  went,  with  white  spume  on  breast  and  bridle  ; 
leaping,  swerving  where  rough  ground  showed.  To  Igraine 
the  ride  was  life  indeed,  bringing  back  many  a  whistling 
gallop  from  the  past.  She  felt  her  heart  in  her  leaping  to 
the  horse's  stride.  Now  and  again  she  took  a  sly  look  at 
Pelleas's  face,  finding  it  calm  and  vigilant  —  the  face  of  a 
man  whose  thought  ran  a  silent  course  unruffled  by  the 
breeze  of  peril.  She  felt  his  bridle-arm  staunchly  about  her 
like  a  girdle  of  steel.  Although  she  could  see  the  dust 
gathering  thickly  on  the  distant  road,  she  felt  blithe  as  a 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  43 

new  bride  in  the  man's  company,  and  there  was  no  fear  at 
all  in  her  thought. 

The  grassland  began  to  slope  gradually  towards  the  south. 
A  quavering  screech  of  joy  came  back  to  them  from  the 
woman  riding  in  the  van.  Pelleas  spoke  his  first  word 
during  the  gallop. 

"  Courage,"  he  said.      "  Southwards  lies  our  refuge." 

Igraine  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw  how  their 
flight  tended  down  the  flank  of  a  gentle  hill  into  the  lap 
of  a  fair  valley.  The  grass  stretch  was  broken  by  great 
trees  —  oaks,  beeches,  and  huge,  corniced  cedars.  Down  in 
the  green  hollow  below  them  a  mere  shone  with  the  soul  of 
the  sky  steeped  in  its  quiet  waters.  It  was  ringed  with 
trailing  willows,  and  an  island  held  its  centre,  piled  with 
green  shadows  and  the  grey  shape  of  a  fair  manor.  The 
place  looked  as  peaceful  as  sleep  in  the  eye  of  the 
morning. 

The  woman  on  the  white  horse  bade  one  of  her  men 
take  his  bugle-horn  and  blow  a  summons  thereon  to  rouse 
the  folk  upon  the  island.  Twice  the  summons  sounded 
down  over  the  water,  but  there  was  no  answering  stir  to  be 
marked  about  the  house  or  garden.  The  place  was  smoke- 
less, lifeless,  silent.  Like  many  another  home,  its  hearths 
were  cold  for  fear  of  the  barbarian  sword. 

As  they  held  downhill,  Igraine  wove  the  matter  through 
her  thought  like  swift  silk  through  a  shuttle. 

"  Should  there  be  no  boat,"  she  said,  giving  voice  to  her 
misgivings,  "  what  can  you  do  for  us  ?  " 

"  We  must  swim  for  it,"  said  Pelleas,  keenly. 

"  It  is  a  broad,  fair  water,  and  the  horse  cannot  bear  us 
both." 

"  He  shall,  if  needs  be." 

She  felt  that  the  brute  would,  after  Pelleas  had  spoken 
so.  She  patted  the  arched  black  neck,  and  smiled  at  the 
sky  as  they  came  down  to  the  mere's  edge  at  a  canter. 
The  water  was  lapping  softly  at  the  sedges  amid  a  blaze 
of  marsh  marigolds  and  purple  flags,  the  surface  gleaming 


44  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

like  glass  in  the  sun.  Half  a  score  water-hens  went  wing- 
ing from  the  reeds,  and  skimming  low  and  fast  towards  the 
island.  A  heron  rose  from  the  shallows,  and  laboured 
heavenwards  with  legs  trailing. 

Riding  round  the  margin,  they  found  to  their  joy  a 
barge  grounded  in  a  little  bay,  with  sweeps  ready  upon  the 
thwarts,  and  a  horse-board  fitted  at  the  prow.  A  purple 
cloak  hung  over  one  bulwark,  trailing  in  the  water ;  a  small 
crucifix  and  a  few  trinkets  were  scattered  on  the  poop,  as 
though  those  who  had  used  the  ferry  last  had  fled  in  fear, 
forgetful  of  everything  save  flight. 

Then  came  the  embarkation.  The  barge  would  but 
hold  three  horses  at  one  voyage,  so  Pelleas  ordered  Igraine 
and  the  rest  into  the  boat,  and  bade  the  men  row  over  and 
return.  Igraine  demurred  a  moment. 

"  Leave  your  horse,"  she  said ;  "  they  may  come  before 
the  boat  can  take  you." 

Pelleas  refused  her  with  a  smile,  running  his  fingers 
through  the  brute's  black  mane. 

"  I  have  a  truer  heart  than  that,"  he  said. 

The  men  launched  away,  and  pulled  at  the  sweeps  with 
a  will,  Igraine  helping,  and  doing  her  devoir  for  the  man 
Pelleas's  sake.  The  barge  slid  away,  with  ripples  playing 
from  the  prow,  and  a  gush  of  foam  leaping  from  each  smile 
of  the  blades.  It  was  a  hundred  yards  or  more  to  the 
island,  and  the  craft  was  ponderous  enough  to  make  the 
crossing  slow. 

Pelleas  sat  still  and  watched  the  meadows.  Suddenly  — 
bleakly  —  a  figure  on  horseback  topped  the  low  hill  on  the 
north,  and  held  motionless  on  the  summit,  scanning  the 
valley.  A  second  joined  the  first.  Pelleas  caught  a  shout, 
muffled  by  the  wind,  as  the  two  plunged  down  at  full  gallop 
for  the  mere,  sleeping  in  its  bed  of  green.  Here  were  two 
gentlemen  who  had  outstripped  their  fellows,  and  were  as 
keen  as  could  be  to  catch  Pelleas  before  the  barge  could 
recross,  and  set  the  mere  betwixt  them.  Pelleas  saw  his 
hazard  in  a  moment.  Even  if  the  barge  came  before  the 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  45 

heathen,  there  would  be  some  peril  of  its  capture  in  the 
shallows. 

He  would  have  to  fight  for  it,  unless  he  cared  to  swim 
the  mere.  Provided  he  could  deal  with  these  two  outriders 
before  the  main  company  came  up,  well  and  good,  the 
raiders  would  find  clear  water  between  the  quarry  and  their 
swords.  He  thought  of  Avangel,  and  grew  iron  of  heart. 
Then  there  was  the  nun,  Igraine,  with  the  wonderful  eyes, 
and  hair  warm  as  the  dun  woods  in  autumn.  He  was" her 
sworn  knight  as  far  as  Winchester.  God  helping  him,  he 
thought,  he  would  yet  see  her  face  again.  So  he  rode  out 
grimly  to  get  fair  field  for  horsecraft,  and  waited  for  the  two 
who  swept  the  meadows. 

Igraine,  standing  on  the  wooden  stage  at  the  water's 
edge,  saw  Pelleas  taking  ground  and  preparing  for  a  tussle. 
The  barge  had  put  ofF  again  and  had  already  half  spanned 
the  water.  She  was  alone  with  the  woman  of  the  white 
horse,  who  stood  beside  her  still  quaking  like  a  reed,  and 
almost  voiceless  from  the  fulsome  terror  of  an  unshrived 
death.  Igraine  had  no  heed  for  her  at  the  moment.  Her 
whole  thought  lurked  with  the  red  shield  and  the  black 
horse  in  the  meadows.  Worldly  heart !  her  desire  burnt 
redly  in  her  own  bosom,  and  found  no  flutter  for  the 
powers  above. 

She  saw  Pelleas  gathering  for  the  course,  while  the 
heathen  slackened  so  as  not  to  override  their  mark.  A 
crescent  of  steel  flashed  as  the  foremost  man  launched  his 
axe  at  the  knight's  head.  The  red  shield  caught  and 
turned  it.  In  a  trice  Pelleas's  spear  had  picked  the  rogue 
from  the  saddle,  despite  his  crouching  low  and  seeking  to 
shun  it.  The  second  fellow  came  in  like  a  whirlwind. 
His  horse  caught  the  black  destrier  cross  counter  and 
rolled  him  down  like  a  rammed  wall.  Pelleas  avoided,  and 
was  up  with  bleak  sword.  Smiting  low,  he  caught  the 
man's  thigh,  and  broke  the  bone  like  a  lath.  The  Saxon 
lost  his  seat,  and  came  down  with  a  snarling  yell.  The 
rest  was  easy  as  beating  down  a  maimed  wolf. 


46  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

The  main  company  had  just  topped  the  hill.  Pelleas, 
with  the  skirmish  ended  to  his  credit,  shook  his  sword  at 
them,  and  led  his  horse  into  the  shallows.  The  barge 
swept  in,  took  its  burden  from  the  bank,  and  held  back  for 
the  island,  where  Igraine  stood  watching  on  the  stage, 
ready  with  her  welcome.  She  was  glad  of  Pelleas  in  her 
heart,  as  though  the  comradeship  of  half  a  day  had  given 
her  the  right  to  share  his  honour,  and  to  chime  her  joy  with 
his.  The  woman  in  her  swamped  the  assumed  sanctity  of 
the  nun.  As  the  water  stretch  lessened  between  them, 
Pelleas,  silent  and  dark-browed  as  was  his  wont,  found 
himself  beneath  the  beck  of  eyes  that  gazed  like  the  half- 
born,  wonder  of  the  sky  at  dawn.  It  was  neither  joy  nor 
great  light  in  them,  but  a  kind  of  quiet  musing,  as  though 
there  were  strange  new  music  in  her  soul. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ? "  she  asked,  as  he  sprang  from  the 
barge  and  stood  beside  her,  with  head  thrown  back  and  his 
great  shoulders  squared. 

"  Not  a  graze." 

"  Two  to  one,  and  a  fair  field,"  quoth  she,  with  a  quaver 
of  triumph  ;  "  my  heart  sang  when  those  men  went  down. 
That  was  a  great  spear  thrust." 

u  Less  and  less  of  the  rosary  !  " 

She  caught  his  deep  smile,  and  laughed. 

"  I  am  a  greater  heathen  than  either,"  she  said.  "  God 
rest  their  souls." 

Meanwhile  the  lady  in  the  blue  tunic  had  somewhat 
recovered  her  squandered  wits  and  courage.  She  came 
forward  with  a  simpering  dignity,  walking  daintily,  with 
her  gown  gathered  in  her  right  hand,  and  her  left  laid  over 
her  heart.  Her  eyes  were  very  big  and  blue,  their  bright- 
ness giving  her  an  eager,  sanguine  look  that  was  upheld  the 
more  by  an  assumed  simpleness  of  manner.  Her  childish 
bearing,  winsomely  studied,  exercised  its  subtleties  with  a 
lavish  embellishment  of  smiles  and  blushes.  Looked  at 
more  closely,  and  in  repose,  her  face  belied  in  measure  the 
perspicuous  personality  she  had  adopted.  A  sensual  bold- 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  47 

ness  lurked  in  mouth  and  nostrils,  and  there  was  more 
carnal  wisdom  there  than  a  pretended  child  should  possess. 

"  Courtesy  fails  me,  sir,"  she  said,  letting  her  shoulders 
fall  into  a  graceful  stoop,  and  turning  her  large  eyes  to 
Pelleas's  face  ;  "  courtesy  fails  me  when  I  would  most  praise 
you  for  your  knightly  deed  in  yonder  meadows.  I  am  so 
frightened  that  I  cannot  speak  as  I  would.  My  heart  is 
quite  tired  with  its  fear  and  flutter.  Think  you  —  you  can 
save  us  from  these  wolves  ?  " 

Pelleas  had  neither  the  desire  nor  the  leisure  to  stand 
juggling  courtesies  with  the  woman. 

u  Madame,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  fight.  Leave  the  rest  to 
Providence.  I  can  give  you  no  better  comfort." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  no  "  —  as  in  a  daze. 

Pelleas,  reading  her  misery,  repented  somewhat  of  his 
abrupt  truthfulness. 

"Come,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  strength  and  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder  ;  "go  to  the  house  and  rest  there  with  Sister  Igraine. 
I  see  you  are  too  much  shaken.  Go  in  and  pray  if  you 
can,  while  we  hold  the  island." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  unreservedly  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  gave  a  little  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob,  and, 
bending  to  him,  kissed  his  hand  before  he  could  prevent 
her.  Giving  him  yet  another  glance  from  her  tumbled 
hair,  she  stepped  aside  to  Igraine,  and  they  turned  together 
towards  the  manor,  and  the  trees  and  gardens  that  ringed 
it.  The  girl  had  set  her  hand  in  Igraine's  with  a  little 
gesture  that  was  intended  to  be  indicative  of  confidence  in 
the  supposed  nun's  greater  intelligence. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  under  that  yew  tree,"  she  suggested. 
"  I  cannot  stifle  within  walls  now.  You  are  named 
Igraine.  I  am  called  Morgan  —  Morgan  la  Blanche, — 
and  I  am  a  lord's  daughter.  I  almost  envy  you  your  frock 
now,  for  death  cannot  frighten  you  as  it  frightens  me. 
Of  course  you  are  very  good,  and  the  Saints  guard  and 
watch  over  you.  As  for  me,  I  have  always  been  very 
thoughtless." 


48  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Not  more  than  I,"  said  Igraine,  with  a  smile.  "  I  have 
often  hummed  romances  when  I  should  have  praised  Paul 
or  Peter." 

"  But  doesn't  the  fear  of  death  blight  you  like  a  frost  ?  " 

"I. never  think  of  death." 

"  It  seems  so  near  us  now  that  I  can  hardly  breathe. 
Do  you  think  we  are  tortured  in  the  other  world,  if  there 
be  one  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know,  simple  one  ?  " 

"  I  wish  the  mere  were  a  league  broad.  I  should  feel 
further  from  the  pit." 

"Is  your  conscience  so  unkind  ?  " 

"  Conscience,  sister  ?  It  is  self-love,  not  conscience.  I 
only  want  to  live.  Look!  —  the  heathen  are  coming  down 
to  the  mere.  How  their  axes  shine.  Holy  Mother  !  —  I 
wish  I  could  pray." 

Igraine,  catching  the  girl's  pinched  face,  with  lips  drawn 
and  twitching,  pitied  her  from  her  very  heart. 

"  Come  then,  I  will  pray  with  you,"  she  said. 

"  No,  no,  my  prayers  would  blacken  heaven.  I  cannot, 
I  cannot." 

The  wild  company  had  swept  down  between  the  great 
trees  in  disorderly  array.  Their  weapons  shone  in  the 
sunlight,  their  round  bucklers  blickered.  They  were  soon 
at  the  place  where  Pelleas  had  slain  his  men  in  fair  and 
open  field.  Dismounting,  they  gathered  about  their  dead 
fellows,  and  sent  up,  after  their  custom,  a  vicious,  dismal 
ululation,  a  sound  like  the  howling  of  wolves,  drear  enough 
to  make  the  flesh  tingle  under  the  stoutest  steel.  Lining 
the  bank  among  the  willows,  they  shook  buckler  and  axe, 
gesticulating,  threatening,  their  long  hair  blowing  wild, 
their  skin-clad  bodies  giving  them  a  wolfin  look  not 
pleasant  to  behold.  Round  the  margin  they  paddled  — 
searching  —  casting  about  for  a  boat.  They  seemed  like 
beasts  behind  the  gates  of  some  Roman  amphitheatre  — 
caged  from  the  slaughter.  The  girl  Morgan  looked 
at  them,  screamed,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  tunic. 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  49 

Igraine  found  the  girl's  quaking  hand,  and  held  it  fast  in 
hers. 

"  Courage,  courage,"  she  said  ;  "  there  is  no  boat,  and,  even 
if  they  swim,  Sir  Pelleas  is  a  great  knight." 

"  What  can  he  do  against  fifty  ?  "  whined  the  girl,  with 
her  face  still  covered. 

"  Fifty  ?  There  are  but  a  score.  I  have  numbered  them 
myself." 

"  I  would  give  all  the  jewels  in  the  world  to  be  in 
Winchester." 

"  Ah  !  girl,  I  have  no  jewels  to  give  ;  but  this,  I  promise 
you,  is  better  than  a  convent." 

The  barbarians  had  gathered  in  a  group  beneath  a  great 
willow.  Plainly  they  were  in  debate  as  to  what  should  be 
done.  Some,  by  their  gestures,  their  tossing  weapons,  and 
their  bombast,  were  for  swimming  the  mere.  Their 
councils  were  palpably  divided.  Possibly  the  sager  folk 
among  them  did  not  think  the  venture  worth  the  loss  to 
them  it  might  entail,  seeing  that  one  of  those  cooped  upon 
the  island  had  already  given  proof  of  no  mean  prowess. 
They  could  see  the  three  armed  men  waiting  grimly  by 
the  water's  edge,  ready  to  strike  down  the  swimmer  who 
should  crawl  half-naked  from  the  water  weeds  and  mire. 
Gradually,  but  surely,  the  elder  tongues  held  the  argument, 
and  the  balance  went  down  solemnly  for  those  upon  the  island. 

Pelleas  and  the  two  men,  watching  keenly  for  any 
movement,  saw  the  circle  of  figures  break  and  melt  towards 
the  horses.  They  saw  them  pick  up  the  bodies  of  their 
two  dead  fellows,  and  lay  them  across  the  saddle.  In  a 
minute  the  whole  troop  turned,  and  held  away  southwards 
at  a  trot,  flinging  back  a  last  wild  cry  over  the  water. 
The  meadows  rolled  away  behind  them  ;  the  gradual  trees 
hid  them  from  moment  to  moment.  Pelleas  and  the  two 
servants  stood  and  watched  till  the  black  line  had  gone 
southwards  into  the  thickening  woods. 

Under  the  yew  tree  Morgan  la  Blanche  had  uncased  her 
white  face,  and  was  smiling  feebly. 


50  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  I  am  glad  I  did  not  pray,"  she  said  ;  "  it  would  have 
been  so  weak.  Look  !  I  have  torn  my  tunic,  and  my  belt's 
awry.  Bind  my  hair  for  me,  sister,  quickly,  —  before  Sir 
Pelleas  comes." 


VI 

WITH  the  heathen  lost  in  the  distant  woods,  Pelleas  and 
the  women  essayed  the  house,  leaving  the  two  servants  to 
sentinel  the  island. 

The  great  gates  of  the  porch  were  ajar.  Pushing  in,  they 
crossed  into  the  atrium,  and  found  it  sleepy  as  solitude. 
The  water  in  the  impluvium  gleamed  with  the  gold  flanks 
of1  the  fish  that  moved  through  its  shadows.  Lilies  were 
there,  white  and  wonderful,  swooning  to  their  own  images 
in  the  pool.  The  tiled  floor  was  rich  with  colour.  Ven- 
turing further,  they  found  the  triclinium  untouched,  rich 
couches  and  flaming  curtains  everywhere,  gilded  chairs,  and 
deep-lustred  mirrors,  urns,  and  flowers.  In  the  chapel 
candles  were  guttered  on  the  altar ;  dim  lights  came  down 
upon  a  wealth  of  solemn  beauty  —  saints,  censers,  crosses, 
frescoed  walls  all  green  and  azure,  gold  and  scarlet.  The 
viridarium,  set  betwixt  chapel  and  tablinum,  held  them 
dazed  with  a  glowing  paradise  of  flowers.  Here  were 
dreamy  palms,  orange  trees  like  mounts  of  gold,  roses  that 
slept  in  a  deep  delight  of  green.  Over  all  was  silence, 
untainted  even  by  the  silken  purr  of  a  bird's  wing. 

Gynoecium  and  bower  were  void  of  them  in  turn. 
Everywhere  they  found  the  relics  of  a  swift  desertion.  The 
manor  folk  had  gone,  as  if  to  the  ferry  of  death,  taking  no 
worldly  store  or  sumptuous  baggage  with  them.  Not  a 
living  thing  did  they  discover,  save  the  fish  darting  in  the 
water.  The  cubicula  were  empty,  their  couches  tumbled  ; 
the  culina  fireless,  and  its  hearth  cold. 

Pelleas  and  the  women  marvelled  much  at  the  beauty  of 
the  place ;  its  solitude  seemed  but  a  ghostly  charm  to  them. 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  51 

As  for  the  girl  Morgan,  she  had  taken  Pelleas  into  her  im- 
mediate and  especial  favour,  holding  at  his  side  everywhere, 
a-bubble  with  delight.  The  luxury  of  the  place  pleased  her 
at  every  glance ;  her  vanity  ran  riot  like  a  bee  among 
flowers.  She  eyed  herself  furtively  in  mirrors,  and  put  a 
rose  daintily  in  her  hair  while  Pelleas  was  not  looking. 
She  had  already  rifled  a  cabinet,  strung  a  chain  of  amethysts 
about  her  neck,  and  poked  her  fingers  into  numberless  rings. 
Then  she  would  try  the  couches,  queen  it  for  a  moment  in 
some  stately  chair,  or  smother  her  face  sensuously  in  the 
flowers  growing  from  the  urns.  All  these  pretty  vapourings 
were  carried  through  with  a  most  mischievous  grace. 
Igraine,  who  had  seen  the  girl  white  and  whimpering  an 
hour  before  and  in  deadly  horror  of  the  pit,  wondered  at 
her,  and  hated  her  liberally  in  her  heart. 

Nor  was  Pelleas  glad  of  the  change  her  presence  had 
wrought ;  for  her  childish  subtleties  had  no  hold  on  him,  and 
even  her  thieving  seemed  insipid.  With  solemn  and  shadowy 
thoughts  in  his  heart,  her  frivolous  worldliness  came  like 
some  tinkling  discord.  Igraine  seemed  to  have  dimmed 
her  eyes  from  him  beneath  the  shadow  of  her  hood.  Her 
face  was  set  like  the  face  of  a  statue,  and  there  was  no  play 
of  thought  upon  it.  She  walked  proudly  behind  the  pair  — 
not  with  them  —  like  one  elbowed  out  of  companionship  by 
a  vapouring  rival. 

In  the  women's  bower  Morgan  found  a  lute,  and  pounced 
upon  it. 

"  One's  whole  desire  seems  here,"  she  chattered.  u  This 
bower  suits  my  fancy  like  a  dream,  and  I  could  lodge  here 
a  month  for  love  of  it.  What  think  you,  Knight  Pelleas  ? 
I  never  set  foot  in  a  fairer  manor.  I  warrant  you  there  are 
meat  and  wine  in  the  cellars.  We  will  feast  and  have 
music  anon." 

Pelleas's  face  looked  more  suited  to  a  burial.  Igraine 
pitied  him,  for  his  eyes  looked  tired  and  sad.  Morgan 
ran  on  like  a  jay.  In  the  chapel  she  found  Igraine  a 
share. 


52  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Here  is  your  portion,  holy  Sister,"  she  said  ;  "  mine  the 
bower,  yours  the  altar.  So  you  see  we  are  all  well  suited. 
Come,  though,  is  it  not  very  horrible  having  to  look  solemn 
all  day,  and  to  wear  a  grey  gown  ?  I  should  fade  in  a  week 
inside  such  a  hood ;  besides,  it  makes  you  look  such  a 
colour." 

Igraine  could  certainly  boast  a  colour  at  that  moment 
that  might  have  warned  the  woman  of  her  rising  fume. 
Pelleas  broke  in  and  took  up  the  argument. 

"  Men  do  not  consider  dress,"  he  said  ;  "  everything  is  fair 
to  the  comely.  I  look  into  a  woman's  face  and  into  her 
eyes,  and  take  the  measure  of  her  heart.  Such  is  my 
catechism." 

"  But  you  like  to  see  rich  silks  and  a  smile,  and  to  hear  a 
laugh  at  times.  What  is  a  girl  if  she  is  not  gay  ?  No 
discourtesy  to  you,  sister ;  but  you  seem  so  far  set  from  Sir 
Pelleas  and  myself." 

Igraine,  lacking  patience,  flared  up  like  a  torch.  "  Ha ! 
mark  you,"  she  said,  "  my  habit  makes  me  no  coward,  nor  do 
I  thieve.  No  discourtesy  to  you,  my  dear  lady." 

Morgan  set  up  a  thrill  of  laughter. 

"  How  true  a  woman  is  a  nun,"  quoth  she  ;  "  but  you  are 
too  severe,  too  careful.  Thieving,  too  ;  why,  I  may  as  well 
have  a  trinket  or  so  before  the  place  is  rifled,  even  if  I  take 
a  single  ring.  And  what  is  more,  I  have  been  turned  from 
my  own  house  with  hardly  a  bracelet  or  a  bodkin.  Come, 
Sir  Pelleas,  let  us  be  going ;  the  Sister  would  be  at  her 
prayers.  I  see  we  but  hinder  her." 

Pelleas  had  lost  both  pity  and  patience  in  the  last  minute. 
Partisanship  is  inevitable  even  in  the  most  trivial  differences, 
and  Pelleas's  frown  was  strongly  for  Morgan  la  Blanche. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  well,  madame,"  said  he,  "  if  we  all 
went  on  our  knees  for  the  day's  deliverance.  I  cannot  see 
that  there  is  any  shame  in  gratitude." 

"  Gratitude  !  "  chirped  the  girl.     "  Gratitude  to  whom  ?  " 

"  To  the  Lord  Saviour,  madame,  and  the  Mother  Virgin." 

She  half  laughed  in  his  face,  but  his  eyes  sobered  her. 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  53 

For  a  moment  she  fronted  him  with  an  incredulous  smirk, 
then  her  glance  wavered,  and  lowered  to  his  breast.  It  held 
there  with  a  tense  stare,  while  her  whole  face  hardened. 
Pelleas  saw  her  pupils  darken,  her  cheeks  flush  and  pale  in 
a  moment.  He  thought  nothing  of  it,  or  ascribed  her 
distraught  and  strange  look  to  some  sudden  shame  or  shock 
of  penitence.  In  a  trice  the  smile  was  back  again,  and  she 
seemed  pert  and  pleased  as  ever. 

u  I  see  you  are  too  devout  for  me,"  she  said  with  a  glib 
laugh,  "  and  that  I  am  too  wicked  a  thing  for  the  moment. 
I  will  leave  you  to  Sister  Igraine  till  you  both  have  prayed 
your  fill."  Here  she  laughed  again,  a  laugh  that  made 
Igraine's  cheeks  burn.  "  Remember  me  to  St.  Anthony  if 
you  may.  If  I  recollect  rightly  he  was  a  nice  old  gentleman, 
who  cured  4  the  fire '  for  a  miracle,  and  nearly  fell  in  love 
with  a  devil.  Till  you  have  done,  I  will  go  and  gather 
flowers." 

Pelleas  and  Igraine  looked  at  one  another. 

"A  devout  child,"  said  the  man. 

"  And  not  bred  in  a  nunnery." 

"  The  world's  convent,  I  should  say." 

For  the  moment  Igraine  was  almost  for  telling  him  of 
her  own  hypocrisy,  but  the  thought  found  her  more  troubled 
on  that  score  than  she  could  have  guessed.  She  had  acted  a 
lie  to  the  man,  and  feared  his  true  eyes  despite  her  courage. 
"  Another  day  I  will  tell  him,"  she  thought ;  "  it  is  not  so 
great  a  sin  after  all."  So  they  turned  and  knelt  at  their 
devotions. 

Morgan  la  Blanche  went  away  like  the  wind.  She  ran 
through  atrium  and  porch  with  hate  free  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  child's  face  twisted  into  a  scowl  of  temper.  In  the 
garden  she  idled  up  and  down  awhile  in  a  restless  fume,  like 
one  whose  thoughts  bubble  bodingly.  Sometimes  she  would 
smite  a  lily  peevishly  with  her  open  hand,  or  pluck  a  flower 
and  trample  it  under  her  feet  as  though  it  had  wronged  her. 
Then  she  would  take  something  from  her  bosom  and  stare 
at  it  while  her  lips  worked,  or  while  she  bit  her  fingers  as 


54  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

though  galled  by  some  inward  barb.  Presently  she  found 
her  way  by  a  laurel  walk  to  the  orchard,  and  thence  by  a 
wicket-gate  to  the  island's  rim,  where  one  of  her  men  kept 
watch  on  the  further  meadows. 

She  stood  under  an  apple  tree,  called  to  him,  and 
beckoned.  He  came  to  her  —  a  short,  burly  fellow  with  the 
look  of  a  bull,  and  brute  writ  large  on  his  visage.  Morgan 
drew  him  under  the  swooping  dome  of  the  tree,  plucked 
something  that  shone  from  her  bosom,  and  dangled  it  before 
his  eyes. 

"  The  cross,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  Galerius, 
the  cross." 

The  man  stared  at  her  stupidly.  Morgan  lifted  a  finger, 
ran  this  way  and  that  peering  into  the  green  glooms  and 
listening.  Then  she  came  back  to  the  man,  soft-footed, 
glib  as  a  cat,  with  the  cross  of  gold  gripped  in  her  fingers. 
She  smiled  at  him,  a  smile  that  was  almost  a  leer. 

"  Galerius,"  she  said,  "  the  knight  in  the  house  yonder 
wears  a  chain  with  one  cross  missing,  and  the  fellow  cross 
matches  this.  Moreover,  his  poniard  sheath  is  empty.  I 
marked  all  this  as  I  stood  by  him  a  moment  ago.  This  is 
the  man  who  slew  my  lord." 

The  servant's  heavy  face  showed  that  he  understood  her 
well  enough  now. 

"  To-night,"  she  said,  almost  skipping  under  the  trees 
with  the  intensity  of  her  malice,  "  it  shall  be  with  his  own 
poniard.  I  have  it  here.  Galerius,  you  have  always  been 
a  good  fellow." 

The  man  grinned. 

"  Keep  silence  and  leave  all  to  me.  I  shall  need  your 
hand  and  no  more." 

"  Nor  shall  he,"  said  Galerius  curtly. 

•  Morgan  grew  suddenly  bleak  and  quiet,  with  the  thought 
of  murder  harboured  in  her  heart. 

"  Look  for  yourself,  Galerius,"  she  said ;  "  see  that  my 
eyes  have  not  deceived  me.  The  man  must  have  come 
upon  Lord  Madan  when  he  was  alone,  after  our  hirelings 


THE   IV AY  TO   WINCHESTER  55 

had  deserted  the  house.      He  slew  him  in  the  winter  room 

—  this  whelp    sent   by  Aurelius    the    king.      You    and    I, 
Galerius,  found  the  cross  in  my  lord's  dead  hand,  and  the 
poniard   in  his  bosom.      I   warrant   you  we  will  level  this 
deed  before  we  hold  again   for  Winchester." 

u  Trust  my  hand,  Madame  Morgan,"  quoth  the  man ; 
"  if  you  can  have  the  fellow  sleeping,  so  much  the  better, 
one  need  not  strike  in  a  hurry." 

"  Leave  it  to  me,"  she  said ;  "  I  will  give  you  your 
knife  and  your  chance  to-night." 

With  that  she  sent  the  fellow  back  to  his  watching,  and 
threaded  the  orchard  to  the  manor  garden.  Pelleas  and 
Igraine  had  long  ended  their  prayers  in  the  chapel.  Morgan 
found  them  in  the  atrium,  watching  the  fish  in  the  water 
and  their  own  reflections  in  the  pool.  The  girl  had  quite 
smothered  the  bleak  look  that  had  held  her  features  in  the 
orchard.  She  was  the  same  ingenuous,  self-pleased  little 
woman  whose  blue  eyes  seemed  as  clear  and  honest  as  a 
sleeping  sea  in  summer.  Before,  she  had  flown  in  Pelleas's 
face  for  vanity's  sake;  now  she  seemed  no  less  his  woman 

—  ready  with  smiles  and  childish  flattery,  and  all  the  pleas- 
antness she  could  gather.      She  was  at  his  side  again  —  quick 
with  her  eyes  and  tongue.      Probably  she  guessed  that  the 
man  despised  her,  but  then  that  was  of  no   moment  now, 
seeing  that  it  made  the  secret  in  her  heart  more  bitter. 

At  noon  they  dined  in  the  triclinium,  with  man  Galerius 
to  serve.  He  had  ransacked  kitchen  and  pantry,  and  from 
the  ample  store  discovered,  had  spread  a  sufficient  meal. 
His  eyes  were  ever  on  Pelleas  as  he  waited.  There  was 
no  doubt  about  cross  or  poniard  sheath  ;  and  Galerius  found 
pleasure  in  scanning  the  knight's  armour  and  looking  for 
the  place  where  he  might  strike.  • 

The  afternoon  proved  sultry,  and  Pelleas  took  his  turn 
in  keeping  watch  by  the  bank.  Cool  and  placid  lay  the 
water  in  the  sun,  while  vapoury  heat  hung  over  the 
meadows  and  the  distant  woods.  There  was  still  fear  lest 
the  heathen  might  return,  thinking  to  catch  the  islanders 


56  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

napping.  The  very  abruptness  of  their  retreat  had  been  in 
itself  suspicious  ;  and  Pelleas  was  all  for  caution.  Igraine's 
face  seemed  to  make  him  more  careful  of  peril.  He  thought 
much  of  her  as  he  paced  the  green  bank  for  three  hours 
or  more,  before  leaving  the  duty  to  Galerius  and  his 
fellow. 

Returning  to  the  manor  he  found  Igraine  cushioned  on 
the  tiled  floor  beside  the  impluvium,  fingering  the  lute  that 
Morgan  la  Blanche  had  found.  The  latter  lady  was  still  in 
the  tablinum,  so  Igraine  said,  pilfering  and  admiring  at  her 
leisure,  with  fruit  and  a  cup  of  spiced  wine  ready  at  her 
hand.  Pelleas  took  post  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  pool  to 
Igraine,  unarmed  himself  at  his  leisure,  and  began  to  clean 
his  harness.  No  task  could  have  pleased  Igraine  better. 
She  put  the  lute  away,  took  his  helmet  on  her  lap,  and 
burnished  it  with  the  corner  of  her  gown.  Pelleas  had 
sword,  breast-plate,  greaves  and  shoulder  pieces  beside  him. 
Their  eyes  often  met  over  the  pool  as  they  sat  with  the 
scent  of  lilies  in  the  air,  and  talked  little  —  but  thought  the 
more. 

Igraine  felt  queerly  happy.  There  seemed  a  warm  fire 
in  her  bosom,  a  stealthy,  happy  heat  that  crept  through 
every  atom  of  her  frame  like  the  sap  into  the  fibres  of  some 
rich  rose.  Her  heart  seemed  to  unfold  itself  like  a  flower 
in  the  sun.  She  looked  often  at  Pelleas,  and  her  eyes  were 
very  soft  and  bright. 

"  A  fair  place,  this,"  she  said  presently,  as  the  man 
furbished  his  sword. 

u  Fair  indeed,"  said  he ;  "a  rich  manor." 

"  It  is  strange  to  me  after  Avangel." 

"  Perhaps  more  beautiful." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  kindling ;  "  I  think  my 
whole  soul  was  made  for  beauty,  my  whole  desire  born  for 
fair  and  lovely  things.  You  will  smile  at  me  for  a  dreamer, 
but  often  my  thoughts  seem  to  fly  through  forests  — 
marvellous  green  glooms  all  drowned  in  moonlight.  I  love 
to  hear  the  wind,  to  watch  the  great  oaks  battling,  to  see 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  57 

the  sea  one  laugh  of  gold.  Every  sunset  harrows  me  into 
a  moan  of  woe.  I  can  sing  to  the  stars  at  night  —  songs 
such  as  the  woods  weave  from  the  voice  of  a  gentle  wind, 
dew-ladened,  green  and"  lovely.  Sometimes  I  feel  faint  for 
sheer  love  of  this  fair  earth." 

Pelleas's  eyes  were  on  her  with  a  strange  deep  look. 
His  dark  face  was  aglow  with  a  new  wonder,  as  though  his 
soul  had  flashed  to  hers.  The  great  sword  lay  naked  and 
idle  in  his  hands. 

"  Often  have  I  felt  thus,"  he  said,  "  but  my  lips  could 
never  say  it.  Thoughts  are  given  to  some  without 
words." 

"  But  the  joy  is  there,"  she  answered,  with  a  quiet 
smile. 

"  Joy  in  beauty  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,  girl,  a  beautiful  face,  or  a  blaze  of  gold  and  scarlet 
over  the  western  hills,  are  like  strange  wine  to  my 
heart." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  grand  to  live,"  said  Igraine. 

Pelleas's  head  went  down  over  his  sword  as  though  in 
thought. 

"  It,  would  seem,"  he  said  presently,  "  that  beauty  is  a 
closed  book,  save  to  the  few.  It  is  good  to  find  a  heart 
that  understands." 

"  Ah,  that  know  I  well,"  she  chimed  ;  "  in  Avangel  they 
had  souls  like  clay ;  they  saw  nothing,  understood  nothing. 
I  think  I  would  rather  die  than  be  soul  blind." 

u  So  many  folk,"  said  the  man,  "  seem  to  live  as  though 
they  were  ever  scanning  the  bottom  of  a  pot.  They  never 
get  beyond  reflections  on  appetite." 

As  they  talked,  Morgan  la  Blanche  came  in  from  behind 
the  looped  curtains,  with  silks,  samites,  siclatons,  and 
sarcanets  in  her  arms.  She  had  found  some  rich  chest  in 
the  bower  accomplice  to  her  fingers,  and  had  revelled 
gloriously.  She  sat  herself  down  near  Pelleas,  and  began  to 
laugh  and  chatter  like  a  pleased  child.  The  dainty  stuffs 


58  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

were  tossed  this  way  and  that,  gathered  into  scarves  or 
frills,  spread  over  her  lap  and  eyed  critically  as  to  colour, 
before  being  bound  in  a  bale  for  her  journey.  Vain  and 
vapid  as  her  behaviour  seemed,  there  was  more  in  this  little 
woman's  heart  than  either  Pelleas  or  Igraine  could  have 
guessed.  Her  whole  mood  was  false.  Foolish  as  she 
seemed  on  the  surface,  she  was  more  keen,  more  subtle  by 
far  than  Igraine,  whose  whole  soul  spelt  fire  and  courage. 

As  the  day  drew  towards  evening,  Morgan  became  more 
stiff  and  silent.  Her  eyes  were  bright  as  the  jewels  round 
her  neck ;  they  would  flash  and  waver,  or  fall  at  times  into 
long,  sidelong  stares.  More  than  once  Igraine  caught  the 
girl's  face  in  hard  thought,  the  pert  lips  straight  and  cruel, 
the  eyes  hungry  and  very  shallow.  It  reminded  her  of 
Morgan's  look  in  the  morning,  when  she  was  in  such  stark 
fear  of  the  heathen  and  of  death.  Yet  while  she  watched 
her,  smiles  and  glib  vivacity  would  sweep  back  again  as 
though  there  had  been  but  a  transient  cloud  of  thought  over 
the  girl's  face. 

With  the  shadows  lengthening,  they  turned,  all  three 
of  them,  into  the  garden,  and  found  ease  on  a  grass  bank 
beneath  the  black  boughs  of  a  great  cedar.  The  arch  of 
the  dark  foliage  cut  the  sky  into  a  semicircle  of  azure.  All 
about  them  the  grass  seemed  dusted  with  dim  flowers  — 
blue,  white,  and  violet.  A  rich  company  of  tiger  lilies 
bowed  to  the  west.  Dense  banks  of  laurels  and  cypresses 
stood  like  screens  of  blackest  marble,  for  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing. As  they  lay  under  the  tree,  they  could  look  down 
upon  the  water,  sheeny  and  glorious  in  the  evening  peace. 
Further  still,  the  willows  slept  like  a  mist  of  green,  with 
the  fields  Elysian  and  full  of  sweet  stupors,  the  woods  be- 
yond standing  solemn  and  still  at  the  beck  of  night. 

Morgan,  who  had  brought  the  lute  with  her,  began  to 
touch  the  strings,  and  to  sing  softly  in  a  thin,  elfin  voice  — 

My  heart  is  open  at  the  hour  of  night 
When  lilies  swoon 
And  roses  kiss  in  bed. 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  59 

When  all  the  dreams  of  sad-lipped  passion  rise 
From  sleep's  blue  bowers 
To  die  in  lover's  eyes. 

Come  flame, 

Come  fire, 
A  woman's  bosom 
Is  but  life's  desire. 

So,  all  my  treasures  are  but  held  for  love 
In  scarlet  silks 
And  tapestries  of  snow. 
I  long,  white-bosomed  like  the  stars  that  sigh 
A  bed  in  heaven 
For  love's  ecstasy. 

Come  flame,' 

Come  fire, 
A  woman's  bosom 
Is  all  man's  desire. 

The  birds  were  nestling  and  gossiping  in  the  laurel 
bushes,  taking  lodging  for  the  night.  From  the  topmost 
pinnacle  of  the  cedar,  a  thrush,  a  feathered  muezzin,  had 
called  the  'world  to  prayer.  From  the  mere  came  the 
cries  of  water-fowl  ;  the  eerie  wail  of  the  lapwing  rose  in 
the  meadows.  Presently,  all  was  still  and  breathless ;  a  vast 
hush  seemed  to  hold  the  world.  The  west  was  fast  dying. 

Under  the  cedar  the  light  lurked  dim  and  magic. 
Morgan's  fingers  were  still  hovering  on  the  strings,  and  she 
was  singing  to  herself  in  a  whisper,  as  though  she  had  care 
for  nothing,  save  for  that  which  was  in  her  heart.  Pelleas 
and  Igraine  were  quite  near  each  other  in  the  shadow. 
They  had  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  —  one  long,  deep 
look.  Each  had  turned  away  troubled,  yet  with  a  sudden 
glory  of  quick  anguish  in  their  hearts.  The  night  seemed 
very  subtle  to  them,  and  the  whole  world  sweet. 

VII 

IGRAINE'S   thoughts  were  to   music  when  she  went  to  bed 
that  night.       Pelleas's  eyes  stayed  with  her,  darkly,  sadly  ; 


60  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

his  tragic  face  seemed  to  look  out  of  the  night,  like  the  face 
of  one  dead.  And  he  more  than  liked  her.  She  felt  sure 
of  that,  even  if  she  did  not  dream  of  kinder  things  sprung 
from  long  looks  and  quiet  sighings.  She  sat  on  her  bed, 
and  smiled  the  whole  strange  day  over  to  herself  again.  She 
had  the  man  before  her  in  all  his  looks  and  poses  ;  how  he 
sat  his  horse,  the  habit  he  had  of  looking  deeply  into  nothing- 
ness, his  strength  and  quiet  knightliness,  and  above  all  his 
devout  soul.  He  seemed  to  please  her  at  every  point  in  a 
way  that  set  her  thrilling  within  herself  with  a  delicious 
wonder.  Last,  she  thought  of  the  weird  twilight  under  the 
grand  old  tree  —  rare  climax  to  a  day  of  deeds  and  memo- 
ries. She  felt  her  heart  leap  as  she  remembered  the  g"reat 
wistful  look  that  had  shone  out  on  her  from  Pelleas's  eyes. 

The  manor  house  seemed  still  as  the  night  itself.  Morgan 
la  Blanche  had  taken  herself  to  a  couch  in  the  triclinium, 
choosing  it  rather  than  one  of  the  cubicles  leading  from  the 
atrium.  Galerius  was  on  guard,  pacing  the  mere's  bank, 
while  his  comrade  slept  in  the  kitchen.  Pelleas,  armed, 
with  sword  and  shield  beside  him,  had  quartered  himself 
on  cushions  in  the  great  porch,  with  the  doors  open. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock.  Igraine,  full  of  sweet  brood- 
ings,  crept  into  bed,  and  settled  herself  for  sleep.  The 
night  was  wonderfully  peaceful.  The  window  of  the  room 
was  overgrown  with  a  tangle  of  roses,  the  flowers  seeming 
to  mellow  the  air  as  it  came  softly  in,  and  there  was  a  faint 
shimmer  into  the  shadows  that  hinted  at  moonlight.  Igraine 
lay  long  awake,  with  her  eyes  on  the  few  stars  that  peeped 
through  between  the  jambs.  There  was  too  much  in  her 
heart  to  let  sleep  in  for  the  while,  and  her  thoughts  were 
a'  dance  within  her  brain  like  wild,  fleet-footed  things.  As 
she  lay  in  a  happy  fever  of  thought,  her  face  grew  hot  upon 
the  pillow,  and  her  tumbled  hair  was  like  a  lustrous  lava  flow 
over  the  bed.  In  course,  despite  her  tossing,  she  fell  into 
a  shallow,  fitful  sleep  that  verged  between  wakefulness  and 
dreams. 

It  was  well  past  midnight  when  she  started,  wide  awake, 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  6 1 

with  the  half-dreamt  memory  of  some  eerie  sound  in  her 
ears.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  and  listened,  shivering.  There 
were  footfalls,  swift  and  light,  on  the  pavement  of  the  atrium. 
From  somewhere  came  a  gruff  voice,  speaking  tersely  and 
in  bated  tones.  Next,  there  was  something  that  sounded 
like  a  groan,  and  then  silence. 

Igraine  crept  out  of  bed,  hurried  on  her  habit,  opened 
the  door  gently,  and  looked  out.  Moonlight  streamed  in 
through  the  square  aperture  in  the  roof  of  the  hall,  but  all 
else  lay  in  darkness.  The  porch  gates  were  ajar,  with  a 
band  of  light  slanting  through  upon  the  tiles.  Eager, 
tremulous,  she  fancied  as  she  stood  that  she  heard  the  beat 
of  oars.  Then  the  low,  groaning  cough  that  she  had  heard 
before  thrilled  her  into  action  like  a  trumpet  cry. 

She  was  across  the  court  in  a  second,  and  into  the  dark- 
ened porch.  The  doors  swung  back  to  her  hands,  and  the 
night  streamed  in.  Clear  before  her,  lit  with  a  silver 
emphasis,  lay  the  water,  and  on  it  she  saw  the  dark  outline 
of  the  barge,  moving  with  foaming  oars  towards  the  further 
bank.  For  the  moment  her  heart  seemed  to  halt  within 
her. 

"  Pelleas  !  "  she  cried.     "  Pelleas  !  " 

A  stifled  sound  answered  her  from  a  dark  corner  of  the 
porch.  With  a  sudden  frost  in  her  bosom  she  saw  a  black 
rill  trickling  over  the  tiles  in  the  moonlight,  even  touching 
her  feet.  Great  fear  came  upon  her,  but  left  her  power  to 
think.  In  the  triclinium  she  had  seen  a  lamp,  with  tinder, 
steel,  and  flint  in  a  tray  beside  it,  and  in  her  fear  she  ran 
thither,  tore  her  fingers  in  her  haste  with  stone  and  steel, 
but  had  the  lamp  lit  with  such  speed  as  she  had  never  learnt 
at  Avangel.  Then  she  went  back  trembling  into  the 
porch. 

The  knight  Pelleas  lay  in  the  corner,  half  propped  against 
the  wall.  His  head  was  bowed  down  upon  his  chest,  and 
he  had  both  hands  clasped  upon  the  neck-band  of  his  tunic. 
Blood  was  trickling  from  his  mouth,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
hardly  breathing,  while  under  the  left  arm-pit  shone  the 


62  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

silver  hilt  of  the  knife  that  had  been  thrust  there  by  Galerius's 
hand.  To  the  thought  of  the  girl  it  seemed  as  if  the  man 
were  jn  his  death  agony. 

The  utter  realism  of  the  moment  drove  all  fear  from  her. 
She  set  the  lamp  on  the  tiles,  and  kneeling  by  Pelleas,  pulled 
the  knife  slowly  from  his  side.  A  gush  of  blood  followed. 
She  strove  to  staunch  it  with  a  corner  of  her  gown.  The 
man  was  quite  unconscious,  and  never  heeded  her,  though 
he  was  still  breathing  jerkily  and  feebly,  with  a  rattling 
stridor  in  his  throat.  She  lifted  his  head  and  rested  it  upon 
her  shoulder,  while  she  knelt  and  pressed  her  hand  over  the 
wound,  dreading  to  see  him  die  each  moment. 

For  an  hour  she  knelt,  cold  and  almost  bare-kneed,  on 
the  stone  floor,  holding  the  man  to  her,  watching  his  breath- 
ing with  a  tense  fear,  pressing  upon  the  wound  as  though 
ethereal  life  would  ebb  and  mock  her  ringers.  Little  by 
little  she  felt  the  warm  flow  cease,  felt  her  ringers  stiffened 
at  their  task,  while  the  minutes  dragged  like  aeons,  and  the 
lamp  flickered  low  in  the  night.  At  last  she  knew  that  the 
issue  was  stayed,  and  that  Pelleas  bled  no  more.  Gradually, 
fearfully,  lest  life  should  fall  away  like  a  poised  wand,  she 
laid  the  man  down,  and  again  watched  with  her  hand  over 
the  stricken  side.  He  was  breathing  more  noticeably  now, 
with  less  of  the  look  of  death  about  him.  Encouraged  thus, 
she  dared  to  meditate  leaving  him  to  find  wine,  and  sheets 
to  cover  him  there.  When  she  essayed  to  move  she  found 
her  habit  clotted  to  the  wound  where  she  had  held  it.  It 
took  her  minutes  to  cut  the  cloth  through  with  the  knife 
that  had  stabbed  Pelleas,  for  she  was  palsied  lest  the 
wound  should  break  again  and  lose  her  her  love's 
labour. 

Free  at  last,  she  fled  into  her  room,  tore  the  clothes  in 
which  she  had  lain  from  the  bed,  and  carried  them  trailing 
into  the  porch.  Then,  lamp  in  hand,  she  spoiled  the  tri- 
clinium of  rugs  and  cushions,  and  found  there  the  chalice  of 
wine  that  Morgan  had  sipped  from.  Ladened,  she  struggled 
back  across  the  hall,  fearing  all  the  while  to  find  the  man 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  63 

parted.  No  such  foul  fortune,  however.  He  was  breath- 
ing better  and  better. 

Then  she  set  to  to  make  a  bed.  She  spread  cushions  and 
rugs  ;  and  then,  so  slowly,  so  gently,  that  she  seemed  hardly 
to  move,  she  had  the  man  laid  upon  the  couch,  with  two 
cushions  under  his  head.  Next  she  covered  him  with  the 
clothes  taken  from  her  own  bed.  Thus  much  completed 
without  mishap,  she  washed  his  lips  and  face  with  water 
taken  from  the  pool,  trickled  some  wine  down  his  throat, 
and  set  the  doors  wide  to  watch  for  dawn. 

So  pressed  had  she  been  by  the  man's  peril,  that  even 
the  right  of  thought  had  been  denied  her.  Now,  seated 
by  the  lamp,  she  began  to  sift  matters  as  well  as  her 
meagre  knowledge  would  suffer,  keeping  constant  watch  on 
wounded  Pelleas  the  while.  She  knew  that  Morgan  and 
her  men  were  gone  in  the  barge,  but  as  to  who  gave  Pelleas 
his  wound,  she  could  come  to  no  clear  understanding  in 
her  heart.  There  must  have  been  some  deep  feud  for  such 
a  stroke,  though  she  could  find  no  reason  for  the  deed. 
Still,  she  could  believe  anything  of  that  chit  Morgan  la 
Blanche,  and  there  the  riddle  rested  for  a  season. 

Before  long  she  saw  the  summer  dawn  stealing  silently  and 
mysteriously  into  the  east.  The  face  of  the  sky  grew  grey 
with  waking  light,  and  the  hold  of  the  moon  and  night 
relaxed  on  wood  and  meadow.  Then  the  birds  began  in 
the  garden,  till  she  thought  their  shrill  piping  must  wake 
Pelleas  from  his  swoon,  so  blithe  and  lusty  were  they.  The 
east  was  forging  day  fast  in  its  furnace  of  gold.  The  glare 
touched  the  clouds  and  rolled  them  into  wreaths  of  amber 
fire. 

A  sigh  from  the  couch  brought  her  to  her  feet  like 
magic.  She  went  and  knelt  by  the  bed  in  quite  a  tumult 
of  expectation.  Pelleas's  hands  were  groping  feebly  over 
the  coverlet  like  weak,  blind  things.  Igraine  caught  them 
in  hers,  thrilled  as  they  closed  upon  her  fingers,  and,  bending 
low,  she  waited  with  her  lips  almost  on  the  man's,  her  hair 
on  his  forehead,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  closed  lids.  All  her 


64  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

soul  seemed  to  droop  above  him  like  a  lily  over  a  grave. 
Presently  he  sighed  again,  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes  full 
on  Igraine's,  as  she  knelt  and  mingled  her  breath  with 
his. 

"  Pelleas,"  she  whispered.     "  Pelleas." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a  dazed  stare  that 
dawned  into  a  smile  that  made  her  long  to  sing. 

"  It  is  Igraine,"  she  said. 

Pelleas  caught  a  deep  breath,  and  groaned  as  his  stricken 
side  twinged  to  the  quick. 

Igraine  put  two  fingers  on  his  lips. 

"  Lie  still,"  she  said,  "  lie  still  if  you  love  earth.  You 
must  not  speak,  no,  not  one  little  word.  I  must  have  you 
quiet  as  a  child,  Pelleas.  You  have  been  so  near  death." 

She  felt  the  man's  hand  answer  hers.  He  did  not  speak 
or  move,  but  lay  and  looked  at  her  as  a  little  child  in  a 
cradle  looks  at  its  mother,  or  as  a  dog  eyes  his  master. 
Igraine  put  his  hands  gently  down  upon  the  coverlet,  and 
smiled  at  him. 

"Lie  so,  Pelleas,"  she  said  ;  "be  very  quiet,  for  I  am  to 
leave  you,  for  a  minute  and  no  more.  You  must  not  move 
a  finger,  or  I  shall  scold." 

She  beamed  at  him,  started  up  and  ran  straight  to  the 
chapel,  her  heart  a-whimper  with  a  joy  that  was  not  mute. 
She  went  full  length  on  the  altar  steps  with  her  face  turned 
to  the  cross  above  —  the  cross  whose  golden  arms  were  aglow 
with  the  sun  through  the  eastern  window.  In  her  mood, 
the  white  Christ's  face  seemed  to  smile  on  her  with  equal 
joy.  She  learnt  more  in  that  moment  than  Avangel  had 
taught  her  in  a  year. 

Hardly  five  minutes  had  passed  before  she  was  with 
Pelleas  again,  bearing  fruit  and  olives,  bread  and  oil.  She 
made  a  sweet  dish  of  bread  and  berries,  with  some  wine  in 
it  for  his  heart's  sake,  and  then  knelt  at  his  side  to  feed  him. 
She  would  not  let  him  lift  a  finger,  but  served  him  herself 
with  silver  spoon  and  platter,  smiling  to  give  him  courage 
as  he  obeyed  her  like  a  babe.  It  seemed  very  pitiful  to  her 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  65 

that  so  much  strength  and  manliness  should  have  been 
smitten  so  low  in  one  brief  night.  None  the  less,  the 
man's  feebleness  brought  her  more  joy  than  ever  his  courage 
had  done,  and  his  peril  had  discovered  clear  wells  of  ruth  in 
her  that  might  have  been  months  hidden  but  for  the  hand 
of  Galerius.  When  Pelleas  had  finished  the  bread  and  fruit, 
she  gave  him  more  wine,  and  then  set  to  to  bathe  his  hands 
and  face  with  scented  water  taken  from  the  tablinum. 
Pelleas's  eyes,  with  deep  shadows  under  them  now,  watched 
her  all  the  while  with  a  kind  of  wondering  calm.  The 
sunlight  flooded  in,  and  lit  her  hair  like  red  gold,  and  made 
her  neck  to  shine  like  alabaster.  Meeting  his  look,  she 
reddened,  and  turned  to  hide  her  face  for  a  moment,  that 
he  might  not  see  all  that  was  writ  there  in  letters  of  flame. 

"  Now  you  must  sleep,  Pelleas,"  she  said,  crossing  his 
hands  upon  the  quilt. 

He  shook  his  head  feebly. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you,'*  she  persisted,  "  so  you  must 
not  flout  me,  Pelleas.  I  shall  be  here,  ready,  when  you 
wake." 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  closed  his  lids  gently  with  her 
finger  tips. 

"  Sleep,"  she  said,  brushing  her  hand  softly  over  his  fore- 
head, "  for  sleep  will  give  you  strength  again.  You  may 
need  it." 

She  left  him  there,  and  taking  bread  and  olives  with  her, 
she  closed  the  porch  gates  to  shade  him,  and  went  herself 
into  the  garden.  After  a  meal  under  the  old  cedar,  she 
went  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  washed  her  feet  from 
the  stains  of  Pelleas's  blood,  and  bathed  her  hands  and  face. 
She  saw  the  barge  amid  the  reeds  and  rushes  on  the  further 
bank.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  in  the  meadows,  and  the 
woods  were  deep  with  peace. 

Then  she  remembered  Pelleas's  horse.  Gojng  to  the 
stable  behind  the  manor,  she  found  the  beast  stalled  there, 
though  Morgan's  horses  had  been  taken  by  the  men  in  the 
barge.  Igraine  took  hay  from  the  rack,  gave  him  a  measure 


66  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

of  oats  in  his  manger,  and  watered  him  with  water  from  the 
mere.  Then  she  stood  and  combed  his  mane  with  her 
fingers  as  he  fed.  Some  of  the  poppies  she  had  plaited  there 
were  dead  and  drooping  in  the  black  hair.  She  thought  as 
she  unbound  the  withered  things  how  nearly  Pelleas's  life 
had  withered  with  theirs.  She  was  very  happy  in  her 
heart,  and  she  sang  softly  the  low  tender  songs  women 
love  when  their  thoughts  are  maying. 

Igraine  passed  the  whole  morning  in  the  garden,  going 
every  now  and  again  to  the  porch  to  open  the  doors  gently, 
and  peep  in  upon  the  sleeper.  She  gathered  a  basket  of 
fruit  and  a  lapful  of  flowers.  About  noon  she  went  in, 
and  bringing  jars  from  the  triclinium,  she  filled  them  with 
water  and  garnished  them  with  flowers.  These  jars  she 
set  in  array  about  Pelleas's  bed,  one  of  tiger  lilies  and  one 
of  white  lilies  ;  a  bowl  of  roses  at  his  head,  a  jar  of  holly- 
hocks and  one  of  thyme,  and  fragrant  herbs  at  the  foot. 
Moreover,  she  strewed  the  coverlet  with  pansies,  and 
scattered  rose  leaves  on  his  pillow.  Then  she  went  to  the 
chapel  to  pray  awhile,  before  sitting  down  to  watch  beside 
his  bed. 

Pelleas  woke  about  an  hour  after  noon  had  turned.  At 
his  first  stirring,  Igraine  was  hanging  over  him  like  a 
mother,  with  her  hands  on  his.  Pelleas  looked  up  at  her, 
saw  the  flowers  about  his  bed,  and,  risking  her  menaces, 
spoke  his  first  word. 

u  Igraine,"  he  said. 

She  put  her  face  down  to  his. 

"  I  am  much  stronger,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can  talk  now." 

"  Perhaps  a  very  little,"  she  answered,  with  her  eyes  on  his. 

"  Igraine  !  " 

"  Yes,  Pelleas." 

"  You  are  very  wonderful." 

"  Pelleas  !  "  she  said  redly. 

"  I  should  have  died  without  you,  for  I  was  witless,  and 
coughing  blood." 

u  I  thought  you  would  die,"  she  said  very  softly,  with  her 


THE   IV AY  TO    WINCHESTER  6/ 

eyes  downcast.  "  I  held  you  in  my  arms  and,  God  helping 
me,  staunched  the  flow  from  your  wound.  But  tell  me, 
Pelleas,  who  was  it  stabbed  you  ?  " 

The  man  smiled  at  her. 

"  There,  I  am  as  ignorant  as  you,"  he  said.  "  I  woke  with 
a  fiery  twinge  in  my  side,  and  saw  a  man  running  out  of 
the  porch  in  the  dark.  I  struggled  to  rise.  Blood  came 
into  my  mouth,  and  betwixt  coughing  and  hard  breathing  I 
must  have  fainted.  What  of  the  others  ?  " 

Igraine  knelt  up  from  stooping  over  him,  and  thought. 

"  Morgan  and  her  men,"  she  said  presently,  "  fled  across 
the  mere  in  the  barge  just  after  you  had  been  stabbed.  I 
saw  them  go  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  your  cry  that  woke 
me  in  bed.  I  came  and  found  you  senseless  in  the  cor- 
ner, and  the  woman  and  her  rascals  making  off  in  the  boat. 
One  of  the  men  must  have  smitten  you  while  you  slept." 

Pelleas  kept  silence  for  a  while,  as  though  he  were  think- 
ing hard. 

"  Show  me  the  knife,"  he  said  anon. 

Igraine  had  washed  away  the  stains,  and  laid  it  aside  in  a 
corner.  She  held  it  up  now  before  Pelleas's  eyes  as  he  lay  in 
bed.  He  took  it  from  her  with  trembling  hands,  and  handled 
it,  his  face  darkening. 

"  This  is  my  own  poniard,"  he  said,  "  the  poniard  I  left 
in  the  heart  of  the  man  in  Andredswold.  Look,  girl,  look  ! 
Search  and  see,  mayhap  you  may  find  a  cross." 

Igraine  did  his  bidding,  and  searched  the  pavement,  but 
found  nothing.  Then  she  came  back  to  the  bed,  and  began 
to  turn  the  cushions  up  here  and  there,  and  to  scan  the  tiled 
floor.  Sure  enough,  under  the  foot  of  the  bed,  she  found  a 
small  gold  cross  lying,  smeared  lightly  with  dried  blood. 
She  took  it  up  and  gave  it  to  Pelleas.  He  caught  and  held 
it  with  a  terse  cry. 


68  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 


VIII 

PELLEAS  lay  the  afternoon  through  in  a  half  dream  of 
shifting  thought.  But  for  the  tangible  things  about  him 
there  might  have  been  elfin  mischief  in  the  air,  for  the  last 
few  days  had  passed  with  such  flash  of  new  feeling  and  desire 
that  the  man's  mind  was  still  in  a  daze. 

He  lay  in  bed,  with  jars  of  lilies  round  him,  and  a  woman 
tending  him  with  the  grace  of  a  Diana.  It  was  all  very 
strange,  very  pleasant,  despite  the  ague  -in  his  ribs  and  his 
inordinate  weakness.  He  was  not  so  sure  after  all  that 
he  bore  Morgan  la  Blanche  any  so  fervent  a  piece  of  malice  ; 
fortune  seemed  to  beckon  him  towards  generosity,  seeing 
that  his  condition  was  so  truly  picturesque.  Uncouth  feel- 
ings were  swallowed  up  for  the  time  being  by  a  benignant 
stupor  of  contentment. 

But  the  balance  of  human  happiness  is  often  very  nice  and 
subtle.  Leaden  reason  tumbled  into  the  scale  of  melancholy 
may  even  outscale  the  bowl  of  dreams.  Love  and  law  often 
dangle  on  either  beam  of  a  man's  mind,  or  philosophy 
anchored  to  a  rock  may  sky  poor  fancy  into  the  clouds.  So 
it  was  with  Pelleas  that  day,  wisdom  being  often  enough  a 
miserable  nurse.  When  he  thought  of  Igraine,  reason  as 
he  would  with  himself,  his  soul  began  to  shimmer  like  moon- 
rippled  water.  When  she  looked  at  him  the  very  pillars  of 
his  manhood  seemed  to  quake.  When  she  passed,  light- 
footed,  from  garden  to  porch,  she  seemed  to  come  in  like 
the  sun,  bringing  streams  of  warmth  into  his  wounded  flesh. 
Of  necessity,  he  soon.met  other  cogitations  less  pleasant,  and 
no  less  imperative.  From  legal  quarters  came  that  inevitable 
pedagogue  blear-eyed  Verity,  paunched  up  with  dogma  and 
breathing  ethical  platitudes  like  garlic.  "  The  woman's  a 
nun,"  quoth  Dom  Verity,  with  a  sneer.  "  Keep  your  fancy 
in  leash,  my  good  Pelleas,  and  forswear  romance.  Bar  your 
thoughts  from  a  child  of  the  church  or  you  will  rue  it.  No 
man  may  serve  a  nun.  The  world  has  said." 


THE 'WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  69 

What  with  his  wound  and  his  fractious  meditations, 
Pelleas  soon  fell  into  a  most  dismal  temper.  Like  most  sick 
folk  he  had  lost  for  the  time  that  level  sense  of  proportion 
that  is  the  sure  outcome  of  health.  His  thoughts  began  to 
gape  at  him,  and  to  pull  most  melancholy  grimaces.  Even 
the  dead  man  squatting  in  the  great  chair  in  the  manor  in 
Andredswold  began  to  haunt  him  like  an  ogrish  conscience. 
Hot  and  racked,  he  could  stand  his  own  company  at  last  no 
longer.  Calling  Igraine  to  him,  he  began  to  unburden 
himself  to  her  with  regard  to  the  man  he  had  done  to  death 
in  the  forest. 

The  girl  listened,  mild  as  moonlight,  and  ready  to  swear 
away  her  soul  to  soothe  him. 

"  I  am  troubled  for  the  deed,"  he  was  saying,  "  though  the 
man  deserved  death,  twenty  deaths,  and  though  I  served 
justice  to  the  echo.  His  blood  hangs  on  my  hands,  and 
makes  me  restless  at  heart." 

"  Tell  me  his  sin,  Pelleas." 

"  They  were  many,  and  too  gross  for  ears  such  as  thine." 

"  Then  palpably  he  was  too  gross  to  live." 

"  No  doubt,  child." 

"  Then  why  trouble  for  his  death,  Pelleas  ;  you  would  not 
shrink  from  treading  out  an  adder's  brains  ? " 

"  Ah,  but  there  is  the  man's  soul.  I  feel  for  him  after  my 
own  down-bringing.  What  chance  had  he  of  penitence  ?  " 

"True,"  she  said  gravely,  "  but  your  mother,  the  Abbess 
Gratia,  used  to  tell  us  that  bad  men  repented  only  in  legends 
and  in  the  Bible  ;  never  in  grim  life.  Besides,  you  pre- 
vented the  man  committing  worse  offences  in  the  future, 
and  getting  deeper  into  the  pit.  Why,  Pelleas,  hundreds  of 
good  knights  have  lost  life  for  a  mere  matter  of  love ;  why 
trouble  for  the  life  of  a  wretch  who  perhaps  never  knew 
what  truth  meant.  You  would  not  grieve  for  men  slain  in 
battle." 

"  In  battle  the  blood  is  hot  and  the  brain  afire.  This  was 
a  rank  and  reasonable  stroke." 

"  And  therefore  the  more  deserved.     Why  trouble  about 


70  UTHER   AND  IGRAINE 

it,  Pelleas  ?  In  faith,  since  your  plight  makes  me  tyrant,  I 
forbid  such  brooding.  It  is  but  the  evil  fancy  of  a  distraught 
mind,  an  incubus  I  must  chase  away.  See,  your  hands  are 
hot,  and  your  forehead  too.  Will  you  sleep  again,  or  shall 
I  sing  to  you  ?  " 

"  Presently,"  he  said.  "  I  have  more  to  speak  of 
yet." 

Igraine  knelt  by  him  on  her  cushion,  serene  and 
tender. 

"  Say  on,  Pelleas,"  she  said  ;  "  a  woman  loves  a  man's 
confidence.  If  I  can  give  you  comfort  I  will  gladly  listen 
here  till  midnight.  You  are  not  yourself,  weak  from  loss  of 
blood,  and  a  gnat's  sting  is  like  a  lance  thrust  to  you.  Tell 
me  your  other  troubles." 

Pelleas  groaned,  hesitated,  looked  up  into  her  eyes,  and 
recanted  inwardly.  He  furbished  up  a  minor  woe  to  serve 
the  occasion. 

"It  is  my  sword  and  shield,"  he  said  ;  "they  were  given  me 
blessed  and  consecrated  by  my  mother.  It  is  in  my  thought 
that  I  had  smirched  them  by  this  deed.  What  think  you, 

girl?" 

"  I  cannot  think  so,"  she  said  stoutly. 

Then  since  his  face  was  so  wistful  and  troubled,  she 
racked  her  fancy  for  some  plan  she  thought  might  soothe 
him.  A  sudden  purpose  came  to  her  like  prophecy. 

"  Listen,"  she  said.  "  I  can  do  this  for  you.  Give  me 
your  shield  and  sword,  and  let  me  lay  them  on  the  high 
altar  under  the  cross  with  candles  burning,  and  let  me  pray 
for  them  there.  Will  that  comfort  you,  Pelleas  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  sad  smile ;  "  pray  for  me, 
go  and  pray  for  me,  Igraine." 

It  was  the  impulse  of  a  moment.  She  bent  down  with 
a  great  thrill  of  wonder,  and  kissed  the  man's  lips.  It  was 
soon  done,  soon  sped.  She  saw  Pelleas's  blood  stream  to  his 
face,  saw  something  in  his  eyes  that  made  her  heart  canter. 
Then  she  darted  away,  took  up  the  great  sword  and  the 
shield  with  its  red  face,  and  went  to  the  chapel  singing  like 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  71 

a  seraph.  Her  prayers  were  a  strange  jumble  of  worship 
and  recollection.  "Lord  Jesu,  cleanse  his  spirit,"  said  her 
heart  one  moment;  "truth,  how  he  coloured  and  looked  at 
me,"  it  sang  with  more  human  refrain  the  next.  "  May  he 
be  a  knight  above  knights,"  quoth  devotion  ;  "  and  may  I 
be  ever  fair  in  his  eyes,"  chimed  love.  Altogether,  it  was  a 
most  quaint  prayer. 

Now,  a  certain  mundane  matter  had  been  troubling 
Igraine's  thought  that  day.  The  barge,  seized  and  put  to 
use  by  Morgan  and  her  men,  lay  amid  the  reeds  on  the 
nether  shore,  ready  to  give  passage  to  any  chance  wayfarer, 
welcome  or  otherwise,  who  should  choose  to  cross  the  mere. 
The  boat,  so  fixed,  floated  as  a  constant  peril  to  Pelleas  and 
herself.  She  felt  that  peace  would  flout  them  so  long  as  the 
barge  lay  ready  to  play  ferry-boat  to  any  casual  intruder. 
Pelleas's  wound  might  keep  them  cooped  many  days  in  the 
place.  She  vowed  to  herself  that  the  boat  should  be  regained, 
and  blushed  when  the  oath  accused  her. 

At  dusk,  when  the  birds  were  piping,  and  there  was  a 
green  hush  over  the  world,  she  went  back  to  Pelleas,  a 
beautiful  shameface,  accompliced  by  the  twilight. 

"  I  have  prayed,"  she  said  simply. 

Pelleas  touched  her  fingers. 

"  I  feel  happier,"  he  said. 

«  That  is  well." 

"  Stay  near  me,  Igraine.      It  grows  dark  fast." 

"  I  shall  be  with  you  till  you  sleep,"  she  said. 

Igraine  fed  him  with  her  own  hands,  talking  little  the 
while,  but  feeling  very  enamoured  of  her  lot.  She  was 
thinking  of  her  new  surprise  with  some  mischieful  pleasure 
as  she  tended  Pelleas.  The  man  was  silent,  yet  very  placid 
and  facile  to  her  willing.  When  she  had  bathed  his  face 
and  neck,  and  seen  him  well  couched,  she  took  the  lute 
Morgan  had  handled,  and  began  to  sing  to  him  softly  — 
wistfully,  as  though  the  song  was  the  song  of  a  quiet  wind 
through  willows.  It  was  a  chant  for  the  dusk,  for  the  quiet 
gazing  of  the  first  fires  of  heaven.  Pelleas  heard  it  like  the 


72  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

distant  touching  of  strings  over  charmed  water,  and  with 
the  breath  of  lilies  over  him  he  fell  asleep. 

Igraine  held  by  him  still  as  a  mouse  in  the  dark,  till  she 
knew  by  his  breathing  that  he  was  deep  in  slumber.  Then 
she  set  the  lute  aside,  put  the  lamp  by  the  porch  door,  so 
that  it  should  be  ready  to  hand,  and  stole  out  into  the 
garden. 

The  moon  was  just  coming  up  above  the  distant  trees. 
Igraine  waited  under  the  black-vaulted  cedar  till  the  great 
ring  rode  bleak  above  the  fringe  of  the  tops  before  she 
went  down  between  laurels  to  the  water's  edge.  There  was 
a  deep  cedarn  scent  on  the  warm  air,  and  everything  seemed 
deathly  still.  Going  to  the  landing  stage,  she  stood  there 
awhile  looking  at  the  water,  dark  and  mysterious,  with  pale 
webs  of  light  upon  its  agate  surface.  Then  she  began  to 
bind  her  hair  closely  on  her  head,  smiling  to  herself,  and 
staring  down  at  her  vague  image  in  the  water. 

Her  hair  in  shackles,  she  turned  to  her  task  in  earnest. 
Soon  habit,  shift,  and  sandals  were  lying  in  a  heap,  and  she 
was  standing  clean,  rare,  gleamingly  straight  as  a  statue, 
with  her  arms  folded  upon  her  breast.  For  a  moment  she 
stood,  making  the  night  to  swoon,  before  taking  to  the  mere. 
Pearly  white  with  an  aureole  of  foam,  she  swam  flankwise 
with  an  overhand  stroke,  one  arm  thrusting  out  like  a  silver 
sickle.  Here  and  there,  fretted  by  the  willows,  long  moon- 
beams glinted  on  her  round  whiteness,  as  the  maddened  foam 
bubbled,  and  the  water  sighed  and  yearned  amid  the  sedges. 
A  fine  glow  had  leapt  through  her  body  like  wine,  and  the 
mere  seemed  to  sway  and  sing  as  she  swam  for  the  main 
bank,  where  the  willows  stood  blackly  in  a  mist  of  phosphor 
glory.  Soon  she  reached  the  shallows  at  a  pleasant  place 
where  stretch  of  grassland  tongued  down  into  the  mere.  She 
climbed  out,  and  stopd  like  a  water  nymph,  her  body  agleam 
and  asparkle  with  its  dew,  her  skin  like  rare  silk,  smooth  as 
a  star's  glance.  Down  fell  her  hair  like  smoke.  She 
stretched  her  arms  to  the  moon,  and  laughed,  aglow  with 
the  warmth  gotten  of  her  swim.  Then  she  went  to  where 


THE   WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  73 

the  barge  lay  amid  the  reeds,  and  boarding  it  poled  out  into 
the  deeps. 

Standing  on  the  poop  she  used  an  oar  as  a  paddle,  and  so 
brought  the  cumbrous  barge  slowly  under  way.  It  stole 
out  from  the  fretted  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  glided  like  a 
great  ark  over  the  mere  in  black  silence,  save  for  the  dip  of 
the  blade  and  the  drip  of  water.  The  voyage  took  Igraine 
longer  than  her  swim.  At  last,  with  the  boat  moored  at 
the  stage,  she  dried  her  limbs  and  body  with  her  hair,  and 
took  again  to  shift  and  habit.  Then  she  stole  back  to  the 
manor,  listened  a  moment  to  Pelleas's  breathing,  and  having 
lit  her  lamp  she  went  to  bed. 

Next  morning  Igraine,  with  her  deed  locked  up  in  her 
heart,  was  preparing  Pelleas  a  meal.  He  had  just  stirred 
and  roused  himself  from  sleep  with  a  little  cry,  and  he  was 
watching  the  girl  with  the  mute  reflective  look  of  one  just 
freed  from  the  visions  of  the  night. 

"  Igraine,"  he  said. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  soft  smile. 

11 1  have  been  dreaming,"  he  confessed  gravely. 

"  Dreaming,  Pelleas  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  "  that  I  saw  a  great  dragon  of  gold 
come  over  the  meadows  with  a  naked  sword  in  his  mouth, 
and  a  collar  of  rubies  round  his  throat.  And  he  came  to 
the  mere's  edge,  ramping  and  breathing  fire.  And  lo !  he 
entered  into  the  barge  there,  and  the  barge  went  forth  bear- 
ing him,  while  all  the  mere's  water  boiled  and  shone  about 
the  boat  like  flame.  So  he  came  to  the  island,  and  all 
greenness  seemed  to  wither  before  him,  and  with  the  fear 
of  him  I  awoke." 

Igraine  shook  her  head  at  the  man. 

u  Your  dreams  are  distraught,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  your 
wound,  Pelleas.  In  faith  we  should  need  the  great  Merlin 
for  such  a  vision." 

"  Ah,"  said  he, "  I  can  read  you  the  riddle,  Igraine.  Our 
barge  lies  by  the  land  bank  ready  for  any  foe.  That  is 
where  the  dream  touches  us." 


74  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Igraine  brought  him  a  bowl  of  crushed  bread  and  fruit, 
and  made  as  though  to  feed  him. 

"  Never  worry,"  she  said  ;  "  the  barge  is  moored  safe  at 
the  stage." 

Pelleas  put  the  bowl  aside  with  one  hand,  and  stared  at 
her  from  his  pillows. 

"  Did  the  barge  swim  the  mere  of  herself,"  quoth  he, 
"  and  anchor  for  us  so  fairly  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Then  —  " 

Igraine  went  red  of  a  sudden,  and  looked  at  her  knees. 

"  Sooth,  Pelleas,"  she  said,  "  I  must  have  been  the  dragon 
of  your  dream  ;  God  pardon  me." 

"  Igraine  !  " 

"  I  never  knew  I  seemed  so  fearful  a  creature." 

"  Honour  and  praise — " 

He  half  rose  on  his  pillows  in  his  enthusiasm.  Igraine 
put  him  gently  back,  and  took  up  the  bowl  of  bread  and 
fruit. 

"That  will  do,  my  dear  Pelleas,"  she  said;  "now  just 
lie  still  and  have  your  breakfast." 

What  boots  it  to  chronicle  at  length  their  sojourn  in  the 
island  manor.  Twelve  days  Igraine  nursed  the  man  there, 
giving  all  her  heart  for  service,  tending  him  from  sunrise  to 
the  fall  of  night.  She  seemed  to  have  no  other  joy  than  to 
sit  and  talk  to  him,  to  make  music  with  voice  and  hand, 
to  keep  his  couch  posied  round  with  flowers.  On  waking 
Pelleas  would  find  her  by  him,  fresh  as  the  dawn  and  full 
of  a  golden  tenderness  ;  at  night  his  eyes  closed  upon  her 
gracious  figure  as  she  sat  in  the  gloaming  and  sang.  She 
was  near  to  hear  his  voice,  quick  to  see  his  needs  and  to 
remedy  them  with  soft  hands  and  softer  looks.  The  very 
atmosphere  about  the  man  seemed  touched  and  mellowed 
by  her,  and  the  hours  seemed  to  trip  to  the  measure  of  a 
golden  rhyme. 

Pelleas  mended  very  rapidly  under  her  care.  His  wound, 
sweet  and  innocent,  gave  him  no  trouble  save  some  slight 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  75 

feverishness  on  the  third  day.  The  sixth  morning  found 
him  so  stalwart  of  temper  that  Igraine  consented  to  his 
leaving  bed  for  a  morning  provided  he  obeyed  her  to  the 
letter.  His  first  steps  were  taken  in  the  atrium  with 
Igraine's  arm  about  his  waist,  and  his  upon  her  shoulders. 
So  well  did  he  bear  himself  that  the  girl  led  him  to  the 
chapel,  and  there  side  by  side  on  the  altar  steps  they  winged 
up  their  devotion  to  heaven.  Igraine's  prayers,  be  it  known, 
were  all  for  love ;  Pelleas's  for  the  threatening  shadows 
over  his  own  soul. 

Daily  after  this  innovation  Igraine  would  make  him  a 
couch  under  the  great  cedar  tree  in  the  garden,  where  he 
could  rest  shaded  from  the  sun,  and  there,  morn,  noon,  and 
eve,  they  had  much  comradeship  and  speech  together. 
They  would  talk  of  God,  the  saints,  and  the  souls  of  men, 
of  love  and  honour,  and  the  needs  of  Britain.  Pelleas 
would  tell  her  of  his  own  service  with  Aurelius,  of  all  the 
fair  pomp  of  Lesser  Britain,  where  Conan  had  begun  a 
goodly  kingdom  years  ago,  and  where  many  British  folk 
had  taken  refuge.  He  had  been  to  Rome  as  a  boy,  and  he 
described  that  vast  city  to  her,  or  told  her  of  the  bloody 
fields  he  had  seen  when  the  steel  of  Christendom  met  the 
heathen.  Fresh  streams  from  either  soul  welled  out,  and 
mingled  much  during  those  summer  days.  Pelleas  and 
Igraine  looked  deep  each  into  the  heart  of  the  other,  finding 
fine  store  of  nobleness,  of  truth,  and  of  things  beautiful,  till 
the  heart  of  each  had  treasured  everything  for  love  and  for 
love's  desire.  They  were  fair  hours  and  very  sweet  to  the 
two.  The  day  seemed  a  casket  of  gold,  and  the  night  a 
bowl  of  ebony  ablaze  with  stars. 

About  this  time  the  man  Pelleas  began  to  go  down  into 
deep  waters.  Many  days  had  passed  with  a  flare  of  torches 
in  the  west ;  their  sojourn  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the 
night  seemed  near.  The  haler  Pelleas  grew  in  body,  the 
more  halt  and  hopeless  waxed  his  soul.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  grow  wounded  to  his  eyes;  the  west  was  wistful 
at  evening,  and  the  starry  sky  a  sob  of  pain.  When  Igraine 


76  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

harped  and  sang,  each  note  flew  like  winged  death  into  his 
heart.  He  had  no  joy  that  was  not  smitten  through  with 
anguish,  no  thought  that  was  not  crowned  with  thorns. 
It  was  a  very  simple  matter  indeed,  but  perverse  to  utter 
bitterness.  Pelleas  saw  no  hope  for  himself  in  the  end. 
He  would  rock  and  toss,  and  think  at  night  till  the  dark- 
ness seemed  to  crush  him  into  a  mere  mass  of  misery. 
Above  all  there  seemed  to  rise  a  great  hand  holding  a  cross 
of  gold,  and  a  voice  that  said,  "  Beware  thy  soul  and  death." 

Not  so  was  it  with  Igraine.  To  her  life  had  no  shroud, 
and  love  prophesied  of  love  alone.  She  knew  what  she 
knew,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  summer  and  the  song  of 
birds.  Pelleas  loved  her ;  she  would  have  staked  her  soul 
on  it,  though  she  did  not  realise  the  desperate  turmoil 
passing  in  the  man's  clean  heart.  Knowing  what  she  did, 
she  was  all  for  sun  and  moods  of  radiant  thought  and 
happiness.  Each  day  she  imagined  that  she  would  tell 
Pelleas  of  her  secret ;  each  day  she  gave  the  golden  moment 
to  the  morrow.  She  knew  how  the  man's  face  would 
flame  up  with  the  fulness  of  great  wonder,  and  like  a 
woman  she  hoarded  anticipation  in  her  heart  and  waited. 

The  day  soon  came  when  Pelleas  declared  himself  hale 
enough  to  bear  armour,  though  the  admission  was  made 
with  no  great  amount  of  satisfaction.  To  test  his  strength 
he  armed  himself  with  Igraine's  help,  harnessed  his  black 
horse,  and  rode  round  the  island,  first  at  a  level  pace  with 
Igraine  running  beside  him.  Then  he  tried  a  gallop, 
handling  spear  and  shield  the  while.  Lastly,  he  took 
Igraine  up  to  him,  and  rode  with  her  as  he  had  ridden 
through  the  wold.  Suffering  nothing  from  these  ventures, 
and  seeming  sure  in  selle  as  ever,  he  declared  with  heavy 
heart  that  they  should  sally  for  Winchester  on  the  morrow. 

Pelleas  and  Igraine  passed  their  last  evening  in  the 
island  under  the  great  cedar  in  the  garden.  The  place  had 
deep  memories  for  them,  and  very  loth  were  they  to  leave 
it,  so  fair  and  kind  a  refuge  had  it  proved  to  them  in  peril. 
Neither  said  much  that  evening,  for  their  thoughts  were 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  77 

busy.  As  for  Pelleas,  he  was  glum  and  heavy-browed  as 
thunder,  with  a  look  in  his  deep  eyes  that  spelt  misery.  It 
was  as  though  he  were  leaving  his  very  soul  in  the  place  to 
ride  out  like  a  corpse  on  a  pilgrimage  with  despair.  How 
much  she  might  have  eased  him,  perhaps  Igraine  never 
knew. 

The  west  was  already  red  and  rosy,  and  there  was  a 
green  hush  over  the  meadows,  and  a  canopy  of  pale  porphyry 
in  the  east.  All  the  soul  of  the  world  seemed  to  lift  white 
hands  to  the  night  in  a  stupor  of  mutest  woe.  Yet  the 
girl's  mood  tended  towards  mere  sensitive  regret,  for  the 
future  was  not  dark  to  her  imaginings. 

"  You  are  sad,  Pelleas,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  only  thinking,  Igraine." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  leave  this  place." 

Pelleas  sighed  for  answer.  With  a  contradictory  spirit, 
born  of  pain,  he  longed  for  night  and  the  peace  it  would 
not  bring.  Something  swore  to  him  that  he  was  more  to 
the  girl  than  man  had  ever  been,  and  yet  she  seemed  happy 
when  he  compared  her  humour  with  his  own.  The  pos- 
sibility that  she  could  dream  of  broken  vows  was  never  in 
his  thought.  He  could  only  believe  that  her  heart  was  less 
deep  than  his,  and  the  thought  only  added  bitterness  to  his 
mead  of  sorrow. 

"  Igraine,"  he  said  anon. 

She  turned  to  him. 

«  You  love  life  ? " 

«  Truth,  Pelleas,  I  do." 

"  Then  love  it  not,  girl." 

"Ah!" 

"  'Tis  a  broken  bowl." 

"  How  so  ?  "  she  said,  thrilling. 

Pelleas  turned  his  face  from  her  to  hide  the  strife  thereon. 
He  felt  as  though  death  was  in  his  heart,  yet  he  spoke  as 
quietly  as  though  he  were  telling  some  mundane  tale,  and 
not  words  conjured  up  by  a  desperate  wisdom. 

"  Igraine,"  he  said,  "  I  have  lived  and  learnt  something  in 


78  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

my  time,  and  my  words  are  honest.  On  earth  what  do  we 
find  —  a  lie  on  truth's  lips,  and  anguish  on  the  face  of  joy. 
The  roses  bloom  and  die,  white  hands  shrivel,  and  harness 
rusts  under  the  green  grass.  As  for  fame,  it  breeds  hate 
and  jealousy,  and  the  curse  of  the  proud.  Music  is  broken 
by  the  laugh  of  the  fool,  nor  can  youth  forget  the  crabbed 
noisomeness  of  age.  Women  sing  and  pass.  A  man 
marries  one  night  and  is  tombed  the  next.  And  love,  what 
of  love  ?  I  tell  you  love  lives  only  in  the  eyes  of  woe.  It 
is  all  mockery,  cold  damned  mockery.  I  have  said." 


IX 

PELLEAS  and  Igraine  were  stirring  soon  after  dawn  on  the 
morning  of  their  sally  for  Winchester.  It  was  a  summer 
dawn,  still  and  stealthy ;  the  meadows  were  full  of  a 
shimmering  mist,  the  mere  spirit-wrapped,  and  dappled  here 
and  there  with  gold. 

Silent  and  distraught  they  made  their  last  meal  in  the 
quiet  manor.  Everything  seemed  sad  and  solemn,  as  though 
the  stones  could  grieve ;  the  lilies  by  the  impluvium  seemed 
adroop,  and  the  flowers  about  Pelleas's  bed  were  withered. 
After  the  meal  Pelleas  armed  himself,  and  went  to  harness 
his  horse,  while  Igraine  put  up  bread  and  foodstuff  into 'a 
linen  cloth  for  their  journey.  Before  sallying  they  went  all 
round  the  manor,  into  the  chapel,  where  they  prayed  before 
the  altar,  into  bower,  parlour,  and  viridarium.  The  porch 
with  its  empty  bed  and  withered  flowers  they  took  leave  of 
last.  There  was  such  wistfulness  there  that  even  the  dumb 
things  seemed  to  cry  out  in  pain. 

Pelleas  closed  the  gates  with  bowed  head,  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross  upon  them  with  the  pommel  of  his  dagger. 
His  throat  seemed  full  of  one  great  muffled  sob.  Together 
they  wandered  for  the  last  time  through  the  garden,  while 
Igraine  plucked  some  flowers  for  a  keepsake.  Pelleas  felt 
that  he  loved  every  leaf  in  the  place  like  his  own  soul. 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  79 

Then  they  went  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and,  getting  the 
horse  on  board,  they  loosed  the  barge  from  the  bank,  and 
came  slowly  to  the  nether  shore.  It  might  have  been  the 
fury  of  death,  so  stark  and  solemn  was  Pelleas's  face. 

Before  turning  their  backs  and  riding  away,  they  stood 
and  looked  long  at  the  place  girdled  with  its  quiet  waters. 
The  great  cedar  slept  there  with  a  hood  of  mist  over  his 
green  poll.  Like  a  dream  island  it  seemed,  plucked  by 
magic  from  some  southern  sea,  fair  with  all  fairness.  Anon, 
despite  their  grieving,  the  last  strand  cracked,  and  the  wrench 
was  done.  They  were  holding  over  vapoury  meadows  with 
their  faces  to  the  west. 

Pelleas  was  very  stoical  that  morning.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  he  had  been  awake  all  night,  couched  with  misery  and 
with  thoughts  that  wounded  him.  All  night  through  the 
lagging  hours  he  had  tossed  and  turned,  cursing  his  destiny 
in  his  heart  —  too  bitter  for  any  prayer.  What  mockery 
that  he  who  had  passed  so  long  unscathed  should  fall  into 
hopeless  homage  to  a  nun.  Desperate,  he  left  his  bed  in 
the  dark,  and  made  the  garden  a  dim  cloister  until  dawn. 
Yet  in  the  rack  of  struggle  a  clear  voice  had  come  to 
touch  and  dominate  his  being,  and  day  had  found  him  stead- 
fast. He  would  hold  to  the  truth,  he  vowed,  do  his  duty, 
and  let  God  judge  of  the  measure  of  his  gratitude.  He 
could  obey,  but  not  with  humility ;  he  could  suffer,  but 
not  with  resignation. 

It  was  after  such  a  night  in  the  furnace  of  struggle  that 
he  forged  his  temper  for  the  days  to  come.  He  had  thought 
to  meet  love  with  a  stark  hardihood,  to  talk  lightly,  to  go 
with  unruffled  brow  while  his  heart  hungered.  Nothing 
should  move  him  to  any  emotion.  He  would  meet  destiny 
like  a  rock,  let  surges  beat  and  melt  back  to  the  sea.  It 
was  better  thus,  he  thought,  than  to  go  moaning  for  the 
moon. 

Such  was  the  determination  that  met  Igraine's  lighter 
humour  that  morning.  She  could  make  nothing  of  the 
man  as  she  rode  before  him.  He  was  bleak,  dismal,  yet 


80  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

striving  to  seem  contented  with  their  lot,  now  conjuring 
up  a  withered  smile,  now  lapsing  into  interminable  silence. 
His  eyes  were  stern  in  measure,  but  there  was  the  old  light 
in  them  when  she  looked  deeply,  and  the  staunch  flame  was 
there  still.  After  all,  Pelleas's  quiet  humour  did  not  trouble 
her  very  vastly.  She  had  her  own  reading  of  the  riddle,  and 
a  word  in  her  heart  that  could  unlock  his  trouble.  More- 
over, she  was  more  than  inclined  to  put  him  to  such  a  test 
as  should  bring  his  manhood  to  a  splendid  trial.  Perhaps 
there  was  some  imp  of  Vanity  deep  down  in  her  woman's 
heart.  At  all  events,  she  suited  herself  to  the  occasion,  and 
passed  much  of  the  time  in  thought. 

A  ride  of  some  seventy  miles  lay  before  them  before  they 
should  come  to  the  gates  of  Winchester.  Much  of  that 
region  was  wild  forestland  and  moor,  bleak  wastes  of  scrub 
let  into  woods  and  gloom.  Occasional  meadows,  and  rare 
acres  of  glebe  ringing  some  rude  hamlet,  broke  the  shadowy 
desolation  of  the  land.  Great  oaks,  gnarled,  vast,  and 
terrible,  held  giant  sway  amid  the  huddled  masses  of  the 
lesser  folk.  Here  the  boar  lurked,  and  the  wolf  hunted. 
But,  for  the  most,  it  was  dark  and  calamitous  —  a  ghostly 
wilderness  almost  forsaken  by  man,  and  given  over  to  the 
savagery  of  beasts. 

Pelleas  and  Igraine  came  upon  the  occasional  trail  of  the 
heathen  as  they  went.  A  smoking  villa,  a  burnt  village 
with  a  dun  mist  hanging  over  it  like  a  shroud,  and  once  a 
naked  man,  bruised  and  bloody,  bound  to  a  tree,  and  shot 
through  with  arrows  —  such  were  the  few  sights  that  re- 
membered to  them  their  own  need  of  caution.  The  wild 
country  had  been  raided,  and  its  sparse  civilisation  scattered 
to  the  woods.  The  .crosses  at  the  cross-roads  had  been 
thrown  down  and  broken.  A  hermitage  they  came  on  in 
the  woods  had  been  sacked,  and  in  it,  to  their  pity,  they 
found  the  body  of  a  dead  girl.  They  halted  there  to  pray 
for  her,  and  to  give  her  burial.  Pelleas  dug  a  shallow  grave 
under  an  oak,  and  they  left  her  there,  and  went  on  their 
way  with  greater  caution. 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  8 1 

Not  a  soul  did  they  meet,  yet  Pelleas  kept  under  cover 
as  much  as  possible  for  prudence'  sake.  He  scanned  well 
every  valley  or  piece  of  open  land  before  crossing  it,  and 
kept  under  the  wooelshawe  whenever  the  track  ran  near 
trees.  Fear  of  the  unknown,  and  the  dear  burden  that  he 
bore,  kept  him  alert  as  a  goshawk  for  possible  peril.  By 
noon,  despite  sundry  halts  and  reconnoitrings,  they  had 
covered  nearly  twenty  miles,  and  by  the  evening  of  the 
same  day  they  had  added  another  score,  for  Pelleas's  horse 
was  a  powerful  beast,  and  Igraine's  weight  cumbered  him 
little. 

Towards  evening  it  began  to  rain,  a  heavy,  summer, 
windless  shower,  that  made  moist  rattle  in  the  leaves,  and 
flooded  fragrant  freshness  into  the  air.  Pelleas  gave  Igraine 
his  cloak,  and  made  her  wear  it,  despite  her  excuses.  As 
luck  would  have  it,  they  came  upon  a  little  inn  built  in  the 
grey  shelter  of  a  forsaken  quarry.  The  inn  folk  were  still 
there  —  an  old  woman,  and  a  brat  of  a  boy,  her  grandson. 
Seeing  so  great  a  knight,  the  beldam  was  ready  enough  to 
give  them  lodgings,  and  what  welcome  she  could  muster. 
She  spread  a  supper  of  goat's  milk,  brown  bread,  and  veni- 
son—  not  a  bad  table  for  such  a  hovel.  The  meal  over, 
she  pointed  Pelleas  with  a  leer  to  a  little  inner  room  that 
boasted  a  rough  bed,  a  water-pot,  and  ewer. 

"  We  will  not  disturb  ye,"  she  said  ;  "  my  lad  has  fod- 
dered the  horse.  You  would  be  stirring  early  ?  " 

Pelleas  gave  the  woman  her  orders,  and  sent  Igraine  into 
the  inner  room.  He  made  himself  a  bed  of  dried  bracken 
before  her  door,  and  laid  himself  there  so  that  none  could 
enter  save  over  his  body.  The  woman  and  the  boy  slept 
on  straw  in  a  corner.  In  this  wise  they  passed  the 
night. 

On  the  morrow,  after  more  goat's  milk  and  brown  bread, 
with  some  wild  strawberries  to  smooth  it,  they  sallied  early, 
and  held  on  their  way  to  Winchester.  The  shower  of  the 
night  had  given  place  to  fair  weather,  and  a  fresh  breeze 
blowing  from  the  west.  Soon  the  sun  was  up  in  such 


82  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

strength  that  the  green  woods  lost  their  dankness,  and 
the  leaves  their  dew.  It  was  the  very  morning  for  a 
ride. 

If  possible,  Pelleas  was  even  more  gloomy  than  on  the 
day  before.  There  was  such  a  level  air  of  dejection  over 
his  whole  being  that  Igraine  began  to  have  grave  qualms  of 
conscience,  and  to  suffer  the  reproaches  of  a  pity  that  grew 
more  clamorous  hour  by  hour.  None  the  less,  maugre  the 
man's  sorry  humour,  there  was  a  certain  stealthy  joy  in  it 
all,  for  Pelleas,  by  his  very  moodiness,  flattered  her  tender- 
ness for  him  not  a  little.  She  began  to  see,  in  very  truth, 
how  staunch  the  man  was  ;  how  he  meant  to  honour  to  the 
letter  her  imagined  vows,  though  his  love  grieved  like  a 
winged  merlion.  His  great  strength  became  more  and  more 
apparent.  A  lighter  spirit  would  have  gone  with  the  wind, 
or  made  great  moan  over  the  whole  business.  Pelleas,  she 
saw,  was  striving*  to  buckle  his  sorrow  deep  in  his  bosom, 
to  save  her  the  pain  of  knowing  his  distress.  There  was 
nothing  little  about  the  man.  Palpably  he  had  not  suc- 
ceeded eminently  in  his  attempt  to  spur  a  wounded  spirit 
into  light  courtliness  and  easy  hypocrisy.  Still,  that  was 
not  his  fault ;  it  only  said  the  more  for  his  love. 

It  was  not  till  noon  had  passed  that  Pelleas,  with  a  heavy 
courage,  constrained  himself  to  speak  calmly  of  their  part- 
ing. Even  then  he  was  so  eager  to  shape  his  speech  into 
mere  courtesies,  that  he  overdid  the  thing,  more  than  be- 
traying himself  to  the  girl's  quick  wit. 

He  had  questioned  her  as  to  her  friends  in  Winchester, 
and  her  purposes  for  the  future.  His  rambling  took  some- 
what of  a  didactic  turn  as  he  laboured  at  his  mentorship. 

"  There  is  a  fair  abbey  within  the  walls,"  he  said ;  u  I 
have  heard  it  nobly  spoken  of  both  as  to  devoutness  and 
comfort.  Their  rules  are  not  of  such  iron  caste  as  at  some 
other  holy  houses ;  the  library  is  good,  and  there  is  a  well- 
planted  garden.  The  abbess  is  a  gracious  and  kindly  woman, 
and  of  high  family.  I  have  often  had  speech  with  her 
myself,  and  can  vouch  for  her  courtliness  and  benevolence. 


THE  WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  83 

Assuredly  you  may  find  very  safe  and  peaceful  harbour 
there." 

Igraine  smiled  to  herself  at  the  callous  benignity  of  his 
counsel.  He  might  have  been  her  grandfather  by  his 
manner. 

"  You  see,"  she  said  naively, "  I  do  not  like  being  caged  ; 
it  spoils  one's  temper  so.  I  have  an  uncle  in  the  place  —  an 
uncle  by  marriage  —  a  man  not  loved  vastly  by  the  proud 
folk  of  my  own  family.  He  is  a  goldsmith  by  trade,  and  is 
named  Radamanth." 

Pelleas's  quick  answer  was  not  prophetic  of  great  favour. 

"  Radamanth,"  he  said  —  "a  gentleman  who  weighs  his 
religion  by  the  pound,  and  is  seen  much  at  church.  Pardon 
my  frankness,  I  had  this  gold  chain  of  him.  He  is  rich  as 
Rome,  and  has  high  rank  among  the  merchants." 

"  So  I  had  heard,"  she  answered. 

Pelleas  looked  into  space  with  a  most  judicial  air. 

"  You  do  not  think  of  going  to  a  secular  house,"  he  said. 

Igraine  smiled  to  herself,  and  halted  a  moment  in  her 
answer. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said. 

«  You  —  a  nun  ? " 

"  Pelleas,  I  do  not  see  why  it  is  necessary  for  holiness  to 
be  bricked  up  like  a  frog  in  a  wall  in  order  to  escape  cor- 
ruption. Why,  you  are  eating  your  own  words." 

"  But  you  have  vows,"  he  said. 

"  I  have ;  and  doubts  also." 

"  Doubts  ?  "  quoth  the  man,  with  a  quick  look,  thrilling 
inwardly. 

"  Doubts,  Pelleas,  doubts." 

She  caught  his  eyes  with  hers,  and  gave  him  one  long, 
deep  stare  that  made  him  quake  as  though  all  that  had  been 
flame  within  him  —  that  which  he  had  sought  to  tread  to 
ashes  —  had  but  spread  redly  into  her  bosom.  There  was 
no  parrying  such  a  message.  It  smote  him  blind  in  a 
moment.  The  spiritual  bastions  of  his  soul  seemed  to  reel 
and  rock  as  though  some  chaos  had  broken  on  their  stones. 


84  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

There  was  great  outcry  in  his  heart,  as  of  a  leaguer  when 
guards  and  stormers  are  at  grapple  on  the  walls.  "  Cross  ! 
Holy  Cross  !  "  cried  Conscience,  in  the  moil.  "  Yield  ye, 
yield  ye,  Pelleas,"  sang  a  voice  more  subtle,  "  yield  ye,  and 
let  Love  in  !  "  He  sat  stiff  in  the  saddle,  and  shut  his  eyes 
to  the  day,  while  the  fight  boiled  on  within  him.  Now 
Love  had  him  heart  and  hand  ;  now  Honour,  blind  and 
bleeding,  struggled  in  and  stemmed  the  rout.  He  was  won 
and  lost,  lost  and  won,  a  dozen  times  in  a  minute. 

Recovered  somewhat,  he  made  bold  to  question  Igraine 
yet  further. 

"  Tell  me  your  doubts,  girl,"  he  said. 

u  They  are  deep,  Pelleas,  deep  as  the  sea." 

"  Whence  came  they,  then  ?  " 

"  Some  great  power  put  them  in  my  heart,  and  they  are 
steadfast  as  death." 

Again  the  wild  flush  of  liberty  swept  Pelleas  like  wind. 

"  Tell  me,  Igraine,"  he  said,  in  a  gasp. 

She  put  her  fingers  gently  on  his  lips.  "  Patience  — 
patience,"  she  said,  "  and  perhaps  I  will  tell  them  to  you, 
Pelleas,  ere  long." 

Thus  much  she  suffered  him  to  go,  and  no  further. 
Her  quick  instinct  had  read  him  nearly  to  the  "  Explicit," 
and  there  she  halted,  content  for  an  hour  or  a  day.  Her 
love  was  singing  like  a  lark  in  the  blue.  She  beamed  on 
the  man  in  spirit  streams  of  pride  and  tumultuous  tender- 
ness. How  she  would  comfort  him  in  the  end  !  He  should 
carry  her  into  Winchester  on  his  horse,  and  she  would  lodge 
there,  but  not  at  the  great  inn  that  harboured  souls  for 
heaven.  She  would  have  the  bow  and  the  torch  for  her 
signs,  and  possibly  the  Church  might  serve  her  in  other 
fashion.  Like  a  lotus  eater,  she  dallied  with  all  these 
dreams  in  her  heart. 

With  the  sun  low  in  the  west,  Pelleas  and  Igraine  were 
still  three  leagues  or  so  from  Winchester.  The  day  was 
passing  gloriously,  with  the  radiant  acolytes  of  evening 
swinging  their  jasper  censers  in  the  sky.  The  two  were 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  85 

riding  on  a  pine-crowned  ridge,  and  the  stretch  of  wilder- 
ness beyond  seemed  wrapped  in  one  mysterious  blaze  of 
smoking  gold.  Hills  and  woods  were  glittering  shadows, 
like  spirit  things  in  a  spirit  atmosphere.  The  west  was  a 
great  curtain  of  transcendent  gold.  Pelleas  and  Igraine 
could  not  look  at  it  without  great  wonder. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  little  glade,  green  and  quiet, 
with  a  clear  pool  in  it  ringed  round  with  rushes.  A  lush 
cushion  of  grass  and  moss  swept  from  the  water  to  the  bases 
of  the  trees.  It  was  as  quaint  and  sweet  a  nook  as  they  had 
passed  that  day.  The  place,  with  its  solitude  and  stillness, 
pleased  Igraine  very  greatly. 

"  What  say  you,  Pelleas,"  she  said, "  let  us  off-saddle,  and 
harbour  here  the  night.  This  little  refuge  will  serve  us 
more  kindly  than  a  ride  in  the  dark  to  Winchester." 

Pelleas  looked  round  about  him,  knelt  for  once  without 
struggle  to  his  own  inmost  wishes,  and  agreed  with  Igraine. 

"  Very  good,"  he  said.  "  I  can  build  you  a  bower  to 
sleep  in.  There  are  hazels  yonder  —  just  the  stuff  for  a 
booth.  The  water  in  the  pool  there  looks  sweet  enough  to 
drink,  and  we  have  ample  in  the  cloth  for  a  supper." 

Igraine  gave  him  no  more  leisure  to  moralise  on  such 
trifles.  She  sprang  down  to  the  cushiony  turf,  and  took  his 
horse  by  the  bridle. 

"  I  will  be  master  again  for  once,  Pelleas,"  she  said, 
"  since,  well  of  your  wound,  you  have  played  the  tyrant. 
At  least  you  shall  obey  me  to-night." 

Pelleas,  half  in  a  stupor,  gave  up  fighting  his  own  heart 
for  a  while,  and  fell  in  with  Igraine's  humour.  She  was 
strangely  full  of  smiles  and  quiet  glances  ;  her  eyes  would 
meet  his,  flash,  thrill  him,  and  then  evade  his  soul  with  sud- 
den mischief.  She  tethered  his  horse  for  him,  and  then, 
making  him  sit  down  under  a  tree,  she  began  to  unarm  him, 
kneeling  confidently  by  his  side.  Her  fingers  lingered  over-long 
on  the  buckles.  When  she  lifted  off  his  helmet,  her  hands 
touched  his  face  and  forehead,  and  set  him  blushing  like  a 
boy.  The  very  nearness  of  her —  her  breath,  her  dress,  her 


86  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

lips  and  eyes  so  near  to  his  —  made  him  like  so  much  wax 
—  passive,  obedient,  yet  red  as  fire. 

When  she  had  ended  her  task,  she  gave  him  his  naked 
sword  and  her  orders. 

"  Now  you  may  cut  me  hazels  for  a  bower,  Pelleas,"  she 
said.  u  I  will  have  it  here  under  this  tree  where  the  moss 
is  soft  and  dry.  This  summer  night  one  could  sleep  under 
the  stars  and  never  feel  the  dew." 

Pelleas  rose  up  and  did  her  bidding.  The  green  boughs 
were  ready  to  his  great  sword,  as  it  gleamed  and  glimmered 
in  the  wizard  light.  He  cut  two  forked  stakes,  and  set 
them  upright  in  the  ground,  with  a  pole  between  them. 
Then  he  built  up  branches  about  this  centrepiece  till  the 
whole  was  roofed  and  walled  with  shelving  green  ;  he  spread 
his  red  cloak  therein  for  a  carpet.  Igraine  sat  and  watched 
his  labour.  Life  seemed  to  have  rushed  nearly  to  its  zenith, 
and  her  thoughts  were  soaring  in  regions  of  gold. 

The  black  moth  night  had  come  into  the  sky  with  his 
golden-spotted  wings  all  spread.  It  was  time  for  idyllic 
love,  pure  looks,  and  the  touch  of  hands.  The  billowy 
bosoms  of  the  trees  rolled  sombrously  above,  and  the  little 
pool  was  like  a  wizard's  glass,  black  and  deep  with  sheeny 
mysteries. 

Igraine  beckoned  Pelleas  to  a  seat  on  the  grass  bank  at 
her  feet  when  he  had  finished.  There  was  a  light  on  her 
face  that  the  man  had  not  seen  before,  a  kind  of  quiet  rap- 
ture, a  veil  of  exultation,  as  though  her  maidenhood  were 
flowering  gold  under  a  net  of  pinkest  satin.  She  had 
loosened  her  hair  in  straight  streams  upon  her  shoulders, 
and  her  habit  lay  open  to  the  very  base  of  her  shapely 
throat.  She  sat  there  and  looked  at  him,  with  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap,  and  her  grey  gown  rising  and  falling  markedly 
as  she  breathed.  It  seemed  to  Pelleas  that  there  was  noth- 
ing in  the  whole  universe  save  twilight,  two  eyes,  a  stirring 
bosom,  and  two  wistful  lips. 

They  had  been  speaking  of  their  ride,  and  of  the  many 
strange  things  that  had  befallen  them  during  their  adven- 


THE   WAY  TO    WINCHESTER  8/ 

tures  together.  Igraine  had  waxed  strangely  tender  in  her 
talk,  and  had  spoken  subtle  bodeful  words  that  meant  much 
at  such  a  season.  She  was  flinging  bonds  about  Pelleas 
that  made  him  exult  and  suffer.  His  heart  seemed  great 
within  him  and  ready  to  break,  for  the  blood  that  bubbled 
and  yearned  in  it  in  glorious  anguish. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  girl,  "  we  enter  Winchester,  and 
I  have  known  you,  Pelleas,  two  weeks  and  some  few  hours 
more.  You  seem  to  have  been  in  my  life  many  years." 

Words  flooded  into  Pelleas's  heart,  and  stifled  all  struggle 
for  a  moment.  He  was  breathing  like  a  hunted  thing. 

"  Igraine,"  he  said. 

"  Pelleas." 

"  I  never  lived  till  our  lives  were  joined." 

Igraine  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  bent  over  him  suddenly, 
her  eyes  aglow,  her  hair  falling  down  into  his  face. 

"  Kiss  me,  Pelleas,"  she  said ;  "  in  the  name  of  God, 
kiss  me." 

Pelleas  gave  a  great  groan. 

"  Girl,  I  dare  not." 

"  You  dare." 

"  Igraine  ?  " 

She  bent  herself  till  her  lips  were  over  his,  and  both  their 
heads  were  clouded  in  her  hair.  Her  eyes  glimmered,  her 
breath  beat  on  his,  he  saw  the  whiteness  of  her  teeth  be- 
tween her  half-closed  lips. 

"  Igraine,"  he  said  again,  half  in  a  groan. 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  simply  took  his  face  between 
her  hands  and  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Coward,  Pelleas." 

Power  seemed  to  go  from  the  man  in  a  moment.  He 
put  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  looked  at  her  as  in  a 
splendid  dream.  Her  face  was  beautifully  peevish,  and 
there  lurked  an  infinite  hunger  on  her  lips.  Then  with  a 
great  woe  in  his  heart  he  drew  her  face  down  to  his  and 
kissed  her.  There  was  such  sweet  pain  in  the  grand  despair 
of  it  all  that  he  felt  faint  for  strength  of  loving.  Before 


88  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

he  had  gathered  breath,  Igraine  had  slipped  away  from  him 
and  was  in  the  bower. 

"Till  dawn,  Pelleas,  till  dawn,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  Igraine  !  " 

"  Go  and  sleep,  Pelleas ;  I  will  talk  to  you  on  the  morrow." 


X 

WITH  the  girl's  face  lost  behind  the  green  eaves  of  the 
bower,  Pelleas  fell  of  a  sudden  into  great  darkness  of  soul. 
It  was  as  though  the  moon  had  passed  behind  a  cloud,  and 
left  him  agrope  in  the  woods  without  light  and  without 
guide.  Igraine  had  bidden  him  to  go  and  sleep.  She, might 
as  well  have  told  the  sea  to  be  still  in  the  lap  of  the  wind. 

Going  aside  towards  the  mouth  of  the  glade  so  that  he 
might  not  disturb  the  girl,  he  began  to  tread  the  grass 
between  brake  and  brake,  while  he  held  parley  with  his 
turbulent  and  seething  thoughts.  What  was  Igraine  to  be 
to  him  on  the  morrow  ?  She  had  broken  the  back  of  his 
determination,  and  beaten  down  his  strength  in  those  grand 
moments  of  sudden  passion.  The  rich  June  of  her  beauty 
was  still  on  his  sight.  Her  grace,  her  infinite  tenderness, 
the  purity  of  her,  were  all  set  about  his  soul  like  angels  round 
a  dreamer's  bed.  She  was  light  and  darkness,  sound  and 
silence ;  she  had  the  round  world  in  her  red  heart,  and  the 
stars  seemed  to  go  about  her  in  companies  of  gold.  Never 
had  Pelleas  thought  idolatry  so  smooth  and  swift  a  sin.  He 
had  never  believed  that  love  in  so  brief  a  space  could  make 
such  wrack  of  madness  in  a  hale  and  healthy  body. 

As  he  walked  under  the  giant  limbs  of  the  great  trees  he 
tried  to  grapple  the  thing  with  reason,  to  untangle  this  knot 
by  natural  logic.  These  were  the  bleak  facts,  and  they 
stood  up  like  white  headstones  in  the  night.  He  loved 
Igraine,  and  Igraine  he  knew  loved  him  in  turn;  but  Igraine 
was  a  nun  despite  her  womanliness,  and  there  lay  the  core 
of  the  whole  matter.  If  he  obeyed  love  he  must  disgrace 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  89 

the  girl  with  broken  vows,  for  like  a  staunchly  taught  Chris- 
tian of  somewhat  stern  and  primitive  mould  he  stood  in 
honest  awe  of  things  spiritual  and  ecclesiastic.  His  very 
love  for  the  girl  made  him  fearful  of  in  any  way  dishonour- 
ing her.  If  he  held  to  the  trite  observations  of  a  prompted 
conscience,  then  he  must  forswear  love,  and  leave  Igraine  to 
the  miserable  celibacy  of  the  Church,  that  chrysalid  state  that 
never  burgeons  into  the  fuller,  fairer  life  of  perfect  woman- 
hood. These  were  the  two  forces  that  held  him  shaken  in 
the  balance.  , 

Long  while  he  went  east  and  west  under  the  trees  with 
the  old  gloom  flooding  back  like  thunder.  His  whole  thought 
seemed  warped  into  bitterness ;  the  blatant  mockery  of  it 
all  grinned  and  screamed  like  a  harpy.  Again  with  clarion 
cry  and  rosy  flush  of  banners  love  stormed  in  and  held  law 
at  death's  door  for  a  season.  Again  came  the  inevitable 
repulse,  the  moaning  lapse  of  desire,  while  the  black  banner 
of  the  Church  flapped  once  more  over  him  in  dismal  sanctity. 
Pelleas  found  no  shred  of  peace  wheresoever  he  looked. 
Who  has  not  learnt  that  when  anarchy  is  in  the  heart,  the 
whole  world  seems  out  of  gear  ? 

As  the  night  passed,  love  seemed  to  faint  and  wax  pale 
before  an  ever-darkening  visage  that  declared  despair.  A 
sense  of  inevitable  gloom  seemed  to  weigh  down  desire,  and 
to  drown  hope  in  misery.  Pelleas  grew  calmer  at  heart, 
though  his  thoughts  were  no  less  woeful.  Love's  voice, 
stifled  and  wistful,  came  like  an  elfin  voice  through  woods, 
while  the  cry  of  conscience  was  like  the  thundering  surge 
of  the  wind  through  trees.  He  grew  less  restless,  more 
apathetic.  Coming  to  a  halt  he  leant  against  an  oak's  bossy 
trunk,  and  stood  motionless  as  in  a  stupor  for  an  hour  or 
more.  The  blight  of  soul-sickness  was  on  him,  and  he  was 
like  one  dazed  by  a  great  fever. 

Presently  he  went  back  slowly  to  Igraine's  shelter  of 
boughs,  and  stood  near  it  —  thinking.  Then  he  dropped  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  crept  up  close,  and  parting  the  leaves 
looked  in  on  her  as  she  slept,  wrapped  in  his  red  cloak.  He 


90  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

could  see  her  face  indistinctly  white  in  a  wealth  of  shadows  ; 
he  could  hear  her  breathing.  Then  he  crept  away  again 
like  a  wounded  thing,  and  lay  for  a  time  with  his  face  in 
his  arms,  grieving  without  a  sound. 

Again,  a  second  time,  he  crept  to  the  bower,  and  listened 
there  on  his  knees.  Turning  his  face  to  the  night  he  tried 
to  pray,  vainly  indeed,  for  his  heart  seemed  dumb.  A  corner 
of  Igraine's  gown  lay  near  his  hands  at  the  entry ;  he  went 
down  on  hands  and  knees  and  kissed  it.  Then  he  took 
the  little  gold  cross  from  his  bosom,  the  cross  Morgan  had 
held,  and  laid  it  on  the  grass  at  Igraine's  feet.  He  also  put 
a  purse  with  a  few  gold  coins  in  it  beside  the  cross.  When 
he  had  done  this  he  crept  away  mutely,  and  began  to  arm  in 
silence. 

Once,  as  he  was  buckling  on  his  casque,  he  thought 
he  heard  Igraine  stirring.  He  kept  very  still,  with  a 
sudden,  wild  wish  in  his  heart  that  she  would  wake  and 
save  him,  but  the  sound  proved  nothing.  He  finished 
buckling  on  his  harness,  girded  his  sword,  and  hung  his 
shield  about  his  neck.  Then  he  went  to  the  little  pool, 
and,  kneeling  down,  dashed  water  in  his  face,  and  drank 
from  his  palms.  He  felt  faint  and  bruised  after  the  night's 
battle. 

Once  more  he  went  and  stood  by  the  hazel  shelter  as 
though  for  a  last  leave-taking  before  the  strong  wrench 
came.  The  little  pavilion  of  leaves  seemed  to  hold  all  hope 
and  human  joy  in  its  narrow  compass.  'Pelleas  stood  and 
took  long  leave  of  the  girl  in  his  heart.  He  wished  her  all 
the  fair  fortune  he  could  think  of,  prayed  for  her  as  well  as 
he  could  in  a  broken,  wounded  way,  and  then  with  a  great 
sob  he  turned  and  left  her  sleeping.  His  black  horse  was 
tethered  not  far  away.  As  he  went  he  staggered,  and 
seemed  blind  for  a  moment.  He  soon  had  the  girths 
tightened,  and  was  in  the  saddle,  riding  away  dry-eyed  and 
broken-souled  into  the  night. 

Presently  the  dawn  came,  redly,  gloriously,  like  a  marriage 
pageant.  Igraine,  reft  from  dreams,  woke  with  a  little 


THE  WAY  TO   WINCHESTER  91 

shiver  of  joy  in  her  pavilion  of  green  boughs.  She  lay  still 
awhile,  and  let  her  thoughts  dance  like  the  motes  in  the 
shimmer  of  sunlight  that  stole  in  between  the  branches. 
The  day  seemed  warm  and  glorious,  for  that  morning  was 
she  not  to  tell  Pelleas  of  the  secret  she  had  kept  from  him 
so  many  days,  the  words  she  had  hoarded  in  her  heart  like 
love  ?  It  would  be  a  fitting  end,  she  thought,  to  the  rare 
novitiate  each  had  passed  in  the  heart  of  the  other. 

Hearing  no  stir  about  her  shelter,  she  thought  Pelleas 
asleep,  and  peeped  out  presently  between  the  boughs  to  bid 
him  wake.  Glade  and  pool  lay  peacefully  in  green  and 
silver,  but  she  saw  no  knight  sleeping,  no  war-horse  stand- 
ing under  the  trees.  Starting  up,  the  gold  cross  glinting  on 
the  grass,  with  the  purse  beside  it,  appealed  her  with  mute 
tragedy.  She  caught  them  up,  trembling,  and  with  sudden 
fear  in  her  heart  she  went  out  into  the  glade  and  searched 
from  brake  to  brake.  It  was  barren  as  her  joy.  Pelleas 
had  gone. 


BOOK    II 

GORLOIS 


I 

RADAMANTH  the  goldsmith  was  held  in  no  little  honour 
and  esteem  by  the  townsfolk  of  Winchester.  Even  the 
market  women  and  the  tavern  loungers  stood  aside  for  him 
in  the  street  as  he  made  his  stately  march  in  black  robe  and 
chain  of  gold.  He  was  a  man  possessed  of  those  outward 
virtues  so  well  suited  to  commend  a  character  to  the  favour 
of  the  world.  He  was  venerable,  rich,  and  much  given  to 
charity.  His  coffers  were  often  open  to  infirmary  and 
church ;  his  house  near  the  market  square  was  as  richly 
furnished  as  any  noble's,  and  he  gave  good  dinners.  No 
man  in  Winchester  had  a  finer  aptitude  for  pleasing  all 
classes.  He  was  smooth  and  intelligent  to  the  rich,  bland 
and  neighbourly  to  his  equals,  quite  a  father  to  the  poor,  and 
moreover  he  had  no  wife.  Every  Sabbath  he  went  at  the 
head  of  his  household  to  the  great  basilica  church  in  the 
chief  square,  worshipped  and  did  alms  as  a  rich  merchant 
should. 

Disinterestedness  is  a  somewhat  unique  virtue,  and  it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  Radamanth  lived  with  his  eye  on 
eternity  alone.  It  must  be  confessed  that  self-interest  was 
often  the  dial  of  his  philanthropy,  and  expediency  to  him 
the  touchstone  of  action.  Nothing  furthers  commerce  bet- 
ter than  a  pious  and  merciful  reputation,  and  Radamanth 
knew  the  inestimable  value  of  a  solid  and  goodly  exterior. 
Wise  in  his  generation,  he  nailed  the  Cross  to  his  door,  and 
plied  his  balances  prosperously  behind  the  counter. 

Thus  when  the  girl  Igraine  trudged  sad-eyed  into 
Winchester  in  her  gown  of  grey,  and  appeared  before  him 

95 


96  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

as  a  homeless  child  of  the  Church,  he  took  her  in  like  the 
good  uncle  of  the  fairy  tale,  and  proffered  her  his  house  for 
home.  Possibly  he  pitied  her  for  her  plight  after  the  burn- 
ing of  Avangel,  for  she  seemed  much  cast  down  in  mind 
and  very  deserving  of  a  kinsman's  proper  comfort.  Then 
she  was  of  noble  family,  a  coincidence  that  no  doubt 
weighed  heavily  in  Radamanth's  opinion.  It  was  good  to 
have  so  much  breeding  in  the  house,  to  be  able  to  say  with  a 
smirk  to  his  friends  and  neighbours,  u  My  niece,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Malgo,  Lord  of  the  Redlands,  slain  and  plundered  of 
the  heathen  in  Kent."  Igraine  brought  quite  a  lustre  into 
Radamanth's  home.  He  beamed  on  her  with  sleek  pride 
and  satisfaction,  gave  her  rich  stuffs  for  dress,  a  goodly 
chamber,  and  a  little  Silurian  maid  to  wait.  Moreover,  he 
gave  his  one  child  and  daughter  Lilith  a  grave  lecture  on 
sisterly  companionship,  advised  her  to  study  Igraine's  gentle 
manners,  and  to  profit  by  her  aristocratic  and  educated  in- 
fluence. Luckily  Lilith  was  a  quiet  girl,  not  given  to 
jealousy  or  much  self-trust,  and  Igraine  found  as  warm  a 
welcome  as  her  unhappy  heart  could  wish. 

No  few  days  had  passed  since  that  dawn  on  the  hill  above 
Winchester  when  Igraine  had  started  up  from  under  the 
green  boughs  to  find  Pelleas  gone.  They  had  been  days  of 
keen  trouble  to  the  girl.  Often  and  often  had  she  hated 
herself  for  her  vain  delay,  her  over-tender  procrastination, 
that  had  brought  misery  in  place  of  joy.  The  past  was  now 
a  wounded  dream  to  her,  ripe  and  beautiful,  yet  fruited  with 
such  mute  pain  as  only  a  woman's  heart  can  feel.  Igraine 
had  conjured  up  love  like  some  Eastern  house  of  magic,  only 
to  see  its  domes  faint  goldly  into  a  gloom  of  night.  She 
felt  as  much  for  Pelleas  as  for  herself,  and  there  was  a  blight 
upon  her  that  seemed  as  though  it  could  never  pass.  She 
was  not  a  woman  given  to  tears.  Her  trouble  seemed  to 
live  in  her  eyes  with  pride,  and  to  stiffen  her  stately  throat 
into  a  pillar  of  rebellious  strength. 

Not  a  word,  not  a  sign  had  come  to  her  of  Pelleas. 
Taken  into  Radamanth's  house,  served,  petted,  flattered,  she 


GORLOIS  97 

went  drearily  through  its  daily  round,  sat  at  its  board,  talked 
with  the  guestfolk,  while  hope  waited  wide-eyed  in  her 
heart  and  kept  her  brave.  Pelleas  had  told  her  that  he  was 
for  Winchester,  and  assuredly,  she  thought,  she  might  find 
him  and  confess  all.  She  often  kept  watch  hour  by  hour  at 
her  window  overlooking  the  street.  In  her  walks  she  had 
a  glance  for  almost  every  man  who  passed  on  foot  or  horse- 
back, till  she  grew  almost  ashamed  of  herself,  and  feared  for 
her  modesty.  Her  eyes  always  hungered  for  a  red  shield 
and  harness,  a  black  horse,  a  face  grieving  in  dark  reserve 
and  silence.  At  night  she  was  often  quite  a  child  in  herself. 
She  would  take  the  little  gold  cross  from  her  bosom  and 
brood  over  it.  She  even  found  herself  whispering  to  the 
man  as  she  lay  in  bed,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  him 
in  the  dark  as  in  pain.  For  all  her  pride  and  courage  she 
was  often  bowed  down  and  broken  when  no. one  was  near 
to  see. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  found  a  confidant  to  befriend 
her  in  her  distress  of  heart.  Lilith,  the  goldsmith's  daughter, 
had  great  brown  eyes,  soft  and  very  gentle ;  her  face  was 
wistful  and  white  under  her  straightly  combed  hair;  she  was 
a  quiet  girl,  timid,  but  very  thoughtful  for  others.  The 
two  appealed  each  other  by  contrast.  Lilith  had  soon  read 
trouble  in  Igraine's  eyes,  and  had  nestled  to  her  in  soul, 
ready  with  many  little  kindnesses  that  were  like  dew  in  a 
dry  season.  Igraine  unbent  to  her,  and  suffered  herself  to 
be  enfolded  by  the  other's  sympathy. 

One  day  she  told  her  the  whole  distressful  tale.  It  was 
in  the  garden  behind  the  house,  a  green  and  pleasant  place 
opening  on  the  river,  and  flanked  with  stone.  The  two 
were  in  an  arbour  framed  of  laurels,  its  floor  mosaicked  with 
quaint  tiles.  Igraine  sat  on  the  bench  with  Lilith  on  a  stool 
at  her  feet.  They  were  both  sad,  for  Lilith  was  a  girl 
whose  heart  answered  strongly  to  any  tale  of  unhappy  mood. 
Igraine  had  made  mere  truth  of  the  matter,  neither  justifying 
nor  embellishing.  Her  clear  bleak  words  were  the  more 
pathetic  for  their  very  simpleness.  Lilith  had  been  crying 


98  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

softly  to  herself.  Her  brown  eyes  were  very  misty  when  she 
turned  her  white  face  to  Igraine's  with  a  grievous  little  sigh. 

"  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Igraine,  taking  her  hands  and  smiling 
through  misery. 

u  I  have  never  the  words  I  wish  for,  and  when  I  feel  most 
I  can  say  little." 

"  You  understand ;  that  is  enough  for  me." 

"  Ah,"  said  Lilith,  with  a  fine  blush  and  a  shy  look,  "  I 
think  I  can  feel  for  you,  Igraine,  almost  to  the  full,  though 
I  seem  such  an  Agnes.  I  am  woman  enough  to  have 
learnt  something  that  means  all  to  a  girl.  I  am  very  sad 
for  your  sake." 

«  Child." 

"  I  will  try  to  comfort  you." 

Igraine's  eyes  burned.  She  kissed  Lilith  on  the  lips  and 
was  mute.  For  a  while  they  sat  with  their  arms  about  each 
other,  not  daring  to  look  into  each  other's  eyes.  Then  the 
girl  kissed  Igraine's  cheek,  and  touched  her  hair  with  her 
slim  fingers. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  help  you,"  she  said. 

«  Help  me  ?  " 

Lilith  flushed,  and  spoke  very  quickly. 

"  Yes  —  to  find  Pelleas.  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I  will 
send  a  friend  of  mine  to  question  all  the  guards  at  the  gates 
whether  they  have  seen  such  a  one  as  you  have  described 
ride  in." 

Igraine  hugged  the  girl. 

"  And  then  you  say  this  Pelleas  was  in  the  King's  service. 
I  have  never  heard  of  a  knight  so  named  ;  but  there  are  so 
many,  and  I  hear  only  gossip.  I  know  a  girl  in  the  King's 
household.  I  will  go  and  ask  her  whether  she  knows  of  a 
tall,  dark  knight  whose  colour  is  red,  who  rides  a  black  horse, 
and  is  named  Pelleas.  You  do  not  know  how  much  I  may 
not  learn  from  her.  I  feel  wise  already." 

Igraine  plucked  up  heart  and  spirit.  She  felt  sorry  that 
she  had  not  spoken  of  her  trouble  to  Lilith  before,  for  she 


GORLOIS  99 

had  lost  many  days  trusting  to  her  own  eyes  and  her  little 
knowledge  of  the  town.  She  kissed  the  girl  again,  and 
almost  laughed.  Then  in  a  flash  she  remembered  a  speech 
of  Pelleas's  which  she  had  forgotten  till  that  moment. 

"  Fool  that  I  am,"  she  said  ;  "  the  very  chain  he  wore  he 
had  it  from  your  father,  and  here  in  my  bosom  I  have  the 
little  cross  that  nigh  lost  him  his  life.  Surely  this  may  help 
us  in  some  measure." 

Lilith  looked  at  the  cross  that  Igraine  had  taken  from 
under  her  tunic,  where  it  hung  by  a  little  chain  about  her 
neck. 

"We  will  show  it  to  my  father,"  said  the  girl,  "and  ask 
him  thereof.  He  may  have  record  of  such  a  chain,  and  to 
whom  it  was  sold.  Who  knows  ?  Come,  Igraine,  we  will 
show  it  him  after  supper  if  you  wish." 

And  again  Igraine  kissed  her. 

It  was  Radamanth's  custom,  after  the  business  of  the  day 
had  been  capped  by  an  honest  supper,  to  sit  in  his  parlour 
and  drink  wine  with  certain  of  his  friends.  He  had  a  par- 
ticular gossip,  an  old  fellow  named  Eudol,  who  had  been  a 
merchant  in  his  time,  and  had  retired  with  some  wealth. 
These  two  would  spend  many  an  evening  together  over  their 
wine,  taking  enough  to  make  their  tongues  wag,  but  never 
exceeding  the  decent  warmth  of  moderation.  Eudol  was  a 
lean  old  gentleman  with  a  white  beard  and  a  most  patriarchal 
manner.  He  was  much  of  a  woman's  creature,  and  loved  a 
pretty  face  and  a  plump  figure,  and  he  would  father  any 
wench  who  came  in  his  way  with  a  benignity  that  often 
made  him  odious.  He  had  a  soft  voice,  and  a  sleek,  silken 
way  with  him  that  made  folk  think  him  the  most  tender- 
souled  creature  imaginable. 

These  two  were  at  their  wine  together  when  Lilith  and 
Igraine  went  in  to  them  that  evening.  Radamanth  since 
his  spouse's  death  had  grown  as  much  a  father  as  trade  and 
the  getting  of  gold  permitted.  In  his  selfish,  matter-of-fact 
way  he  was  fond  of  this  timid,  brown-eyed  creature  he  called 
daughter.  His  affections  boasted  more  of  science  than  of 


100  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

sentiment.  Lilith,  unusually  bold,  went  and  sat  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  and  patted  his  face  in  a  half-shy,  half- 
mischievous  fashion.  Eudol  laughed,  and  shook  his  head  with 
a  critical  look  at  Igraine. 

"  More  begging,"  quoth  he.  "  So,  cousin  Igraine,  you 
look  fresh  as  a  yellow  rose  in  the  sun." 

Igraine  laughed,  and  sat  down  to  talk  to  him,  while 
Lilith  questioned  her  father.  The  goldsmith  bore  his 
daughter's  caresses  with  a  sublime  and  patient  resignation. 
She  began  to  tell  him  about  the  chain,  keeping  Igraine  and 
her  tale  wholly  in  the  background.  When  she  had  said 
enough  for  the  sake  of  explanation,  she  showed  her  father 
the  cross,  and  waited  his  words. 

Radamanth  fingered  it,  turned  it  this  way  and  that,  and 
found  his  own  mark  thereon. 

"  I  wrought  and  sold  three  such  chains  as  you  describe," 
he  said  ;  "  but  what  is  such  a  chain  to  you,  child,  and  whence 
came  this  cross  ?  " 

Lilith  flushed,  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  Igraine. 

u  The  cross  is  mine,"  quoth  the  latter. 

Radamanth  eyed  her  as  though  he  were  not  a  little 
desirous  of  questioning  her  further,  but  there  was  a  very 
palpable  coldness  on  his  niece's  face  that  forbade  any  such 
curiosity.  He  had  a  most  hearty  respect  for  the  girl's  pride, 
and  never  dreamt  of  any  degree  of  tyranny  that  might  seem 
vulgarly  plebeian  to  her  more  noble  notions.  The  remem- 
brance of  her  parentage  and  estate  had  always  a  most 
emollient  effect  upon  his  mind. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  meddle  discreetly,  and  go  no 
further  than  I  am  asked." 

Eudol  winked  at  the  company  at  large. 

"  Never  ask  a  lady  an  uncomfortable  question,"  quoth  he. 

Lilith  beamed  at  him  shyly. 

"You  are  very  wise,"  she  said. 

Radamanth  rose  from  his  chair,  and  going  to  a  great 
press  took  a  book  from  it.  He  set  the  book  on  the  table, 
and  after  much  turning  of  pages,  discovered  the  record  that 


GORLOIS  101 

he  sought.  Following  the  scrawling  lines  with  his  finger, 
he  read  aloud  from  the  ledger : 

"  Gold  chain  of  special  weight,  large  links,  two  gold 
crosses  pendant  over  either  breast.  Of  such  three  were 
wrought  and  sold. 

u  The  first  to  Bedivere,  knight  of  the  King's  guard. 

"  Nota  bene  —  unpaid  for." 

Eudol  set  up  a  sudden  brisk  cackle. 

"  The  man,  the  very  man,  I'll  swear." 

Igraine  gave  him  a  look  that  made  his  mouth  close  like  a 
trap  and  his  body  stiffen  in  his  chair.  Radamanth  continued 
his  reading. 

"  The  second  chain  was  sold  to  John  of  Glastonbury. 
The  third  to  the  most  noble  Uther,  Prince  of  Britain." 

Radamanth  closed  the  book,  and  returned  it  to  the 
press  — 'orderly  even  in  trifles.  Lilith  and  Igraine  had 
exchanged  a  mute  look  that  meant  everything.  Slipping 
away  without  a  word  to  either  man,  they  went  to  Igraine's 
bedroom,  a  great  chamber  hung  with  heavy  red  hangings 
and  richly  garnished.  A  carved  bed  stood  in  the  centre. 
The  two  girls  sat  on  it  and  stored  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Igraine  was  breathing  fast,  and  her  face  was  pale. 

"  Know  you  Bedivere  ?  "  she  said. 

Lilith  shook  her  head. 

"  Or  John  of  Glastonbury  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Or  Uther  ?  " 

Lilith's  brown  eyes  brightened. 

"  Noble  Uther  I  have  often  seen,"  she  said,  "  riding 
through  Winchester  on  a  black  horse.  A  dark  man,  and 
sad-looking.  He  would  be  much  like  your  Pelleas." 

Igraine  was  very  white.  There  seemed  a  race  of 
thoughts  in  her  as  she  played  the  statue  with  her  eyes  at 
gaze,  and  her  lips  drawn  into  a  line  of  red.  Her  hands 
hung  limply  over  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  she  seemed 
stiffened  into  musings.  Lilith  sidled  close  to  her,  and  put 
her  warm  arms  round  her  neck,  her  soft  cheek  to  Igraine's. 


IO2  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

"  We  may  learn  yet,"  she  said. 

"  Other,"  said  Igraine  as  in  a  dream. 

"  Can  it  be  ?  " 

Igraine  drew  a  long  breath  and  sighed  like  one  waking. 

"  I  must  see  him,"  was  all  she  said. 

Lilith  kissed  her. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  King's  house  to-morrow,"  she  said  ;  "the 
girl  may  tell  us  something  of  use.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  Uther  has  not  been  in  Winchester  for  many  a  week. 
Ah,  Igraine,  if  it  should  be  he." 

They  looked  deep  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  smiled  as 
only  women  can  smile  when  their  hearts  are  fast  in 
sympathy.  Then  they  went  to  bed  in  Igraine's  bed,  and 
slept  the  night  through  in  each  other's  arms. 

Early  next  day  they  went  together  to  the  King's  house 
that  stood  by  the  gardens  and  the  river.  At  the  kitchen 
quarters  Lilith  inquired  for  the  girl  who  served  as  a  maid  in 
the  household.  Being  constrained  by  a  most  polite  lackey, 
she  went  in  to  see  the  woman,  while  Igraine  kept  her 
pride  and  herself  in  the  porch,  and  watched  the  people  go 
by  in  the  street.  Presently  Lilith  came  out  again  with  a 
frown  on  her  mild  face,  and  her  brown  eyes  troubled.  She 
took  Igraine  aside  into  the  gardens  that  lined  the  great 
highway  skirting  the  palace,  and  led  her  to  where  a 
fountain  played  in  the  sun,  and  stone  seats  ringed  a  quiet 
pool.  White  pigeons  were  there,  coquetting  and  sweeping 
the  ground  with  their  spread  tails,  their  low  cooing  mingling 
with  the  musical  plashing  of  the  water.  An  old  beggar 
woman  sat  hunched  in  a  corner,  and  three  or  four  children 
were  feeding  the  fish  in  the  pool.  All  about  them  the 
gardens  were  thickly  shadowed  with  great  trees  and 
glistening  lusty  laurels. 

Igraine  looked  into  Lilith's  face. 

"  I  see  no  news  in  your  eyes,"  she  said. 

Lilith  brooded  at  the  pool  and  the  children,  and  seemed 
disquieted,  even  angry. 

u  I  have  learnt  little,  Igraine,"  she  said,  "  and  am  dis- 


GORLOIS  103 

appointed.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was.  The  old  wretch 
who  oversees  the  women  found  me  talking  with  the  girl 
Gwenith,  read  me  a  sermon  on  interfering  with  household 
work,  scolded  me  for  a  young  gossip,  and  had  me  packed  off 
like  a  beggar." 

"  What  a  harridan  !  " 

"  I  have  learnt  a  little." 

"  Quick  !  —  I  thirst." 

Lilith  hurried  on  for  sympathy. 

"  The  girl  has  never  heard  of  a  knight  named  Pelleas," 
she  said,  "  and  there  are  so  many  dark  men  about  Court  that 
your  description  was  little  guide.  As  for  Uther,  no  one 
knows  where  he  is  at  present.  Folk  are  not  disquieted,  for 
he  seems  to  be  ever  riding  away  into  the  woods  on  adventure. 
So  much  gossip  could  read  me." 

Igraine's  face  clouded. 

u  Did  you  ask  of  Bedivere  ?  "   she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  a  silly,  vain  fellow,  with  a  red  beard  and  sandy 
hair." 

"  And  John  of  Glastonbury  ?  " 

"  Gwenith  could  tell  me  nothing  of  that  man.  Dame 
Martha  caught  us  talking,  and  it  was  then  she  scolded  —  the 
ugly,  red-faced  old  hen.  She  said"  —  and  Lilith  blushed 
—  "that  I  was  an  idle,  silly  hussy  to  gad  and  gossip  after 
Court  gentlemen.  Now  that  wasn't  fair,  was  it,  Igraine  ?  " 

D  *  '       O 

"  No,  dear.  I  should  like  to  have  a  talk  with  Dame 
Martha." 

Lilith  rose  to  the  notion. 

"  She  would  never  scold  you,  Igraine.  You  look  far  too 
stately." 

"  Simpleton  !  a  scold  would  spatter  Gabriel." 

u  Well,  if  I  were  Gabriel  I  know  what  I  should  do  to 
Dame  Martha." 

"  You  quiet-faced  thing  —  why,  you  are  quite  a  vixen 
after  all !  " 

"  Ah,  Igraine,  was  there  ever  a  woman  without  a 
temper  ? " 


104  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  No,  dear,  and  I  wouldn't  give  a  button  for  her 
either." 

Suddenly,  as  they  sat  and  talked,  the  beggar  woman 
lifted  up  her  head  to  listen,  and  the  children  turned  from 
feeding  the  fish  in  querulous,  childish  wonder.  There 
was  something  strange  on  the  wind.  Igraine  and  Lilith 
heard  a  gradual  sound  rising  afar  off  over  the  city  —  a  noise 
as  of  men  shouting,  a  noise  that  waxed  and  waned  like  the 
roar  of  surges  on  a  beach.  It  grew  —  rushed  nearer  like  a 
storm  through  trees,  —  deep,  sonorous,  triumphant.  The 
girls  sat  mute  a  moment,  and  looked  at  each  other  in 
conjecture. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  God  knows  !  " 

«  The  heathen  ?  " 

"  Not  that  shout." 

"  Then  —  Uther." 

Igraine  caught  a  deep  breath. 

"  Listen  !  it  comes  nearer.     Come  away,  I  must  see." 

Passing  through  the  gardens  they  came  again  to  the 
highway  skirting  the  palace.  Men,  women,  brats,  monks, 
all  Christendom,  seemed  swarming  up  from  the  city,  and 
there  was  already  a  great  throng  in  the  street.  The  breeze 
of  shouting  came  nearer  each  moment.  Igraine  climbed 
the  pediment  of  a  statue  that  rose  above  the  balustrading 
of  the  gardens;  the  ledge  gave  room  to  both  Lilith  and 
herself.  Together  they  stood  and  looked  down  on  the 
crowd  that  began  to  swarm  at  their  feet  —  soldiers,  nobles, 
dirty  craftsmen,  courtezans,  fat  housewives,  churchmen  — 
their  small  prides  lost  in  one  common  curiousness.  The 
street  seemed  mosaicked  with  colour.  The  broken  words 
and  cries  of  the  crowd  were  flung  up  to  Igraine  like  so 
much  foam. 

"  Gorlois,  say  you  ?  " 

«  Noble  Gorlois." 

"  A  thousand  heathen." 

"  What  —  all  slain  ! " 


GORLOIS  105 

«  Where  ? " 

"  Under  the'walls  of  Anderida." 

"  Come  to  my  house  and  I  will  give  you  red  wine,  and 
play  to  you  on  the  cithern." 

"  Thank  the  Virgin." 

"  Great  Gorlois." 

"  If  it  is  true  I'll  burn  twenty  candles." 

"  Give  over  trampling  me." 

"  A  thousand  heathen." 

"Ho!   there  —  some  rogue's  thieved  my  purse." 

"  They  are  coming." 

"  Let's  shout  for  him." 

"  Great  Gorlois." 

Up  between  the  stone  fronts  of  the  palace  and  the 
dwindling  houses  and  the  rolling  green  of  the  gardens 
came  a  blaze  of  gold  and  purple,  of  white,  green,  blue,  and 
scarlet,  a  gross  glare  of  steel  thundered  on  with  the  tramp 
of  men  and  the  cry  of  many  voices.  A  river  of  armour 
seemed  to  flow  with  a  brazen  magnificence  between  the 
innumerable  heads  of  the  crowd.  Clarions  were  braying, 
banneroles  adance.  The  sun  flashed  on  helmet  and  shield, 
and  made  a  brave  blaze  on  the  flanks  of  the  great  serpent 
of  war  as  it  swayed  through  the  thundering  street,  arrogant, 
triumphant,  glorious. 

Well  in  the  van  rode  a  knight  on  a  great  white  horse. 
His  armour  was  all  of  gold,  his  trappings  white  with  gold 
borders,  and  stars  of  gold  scattered  thereon.  His  baldric 
was  set  with  jasper,  his  sword  and  scabbard  marvellous  with 
beryl  and  sardonyx.  A  coronet  gemmed  with  one  great 
ruby  circled  his  casque,  and  shot  red  gleams  at  the  archer 
sun. 

Behind  him  came  a  veritable  grove  of  spears, —  lusty 
knights,  their  saddles  weighed  down  with  the  spoil  of 
battle,  with  torque,  bracelet,  sword,  and  axe.  Further  yet 
came  pikemen,  mass  on  mass,  bearing  each  on  his  spear-point 
a  heathen  head,  —  pageant  of  leers,  frowns,  scowls  of  red 
wrath,  wild  eyes,  blood,  and  blood-tangled  hair. 


106  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

The  great  knight  on  the  white  horse  rode  with  a  certain 
splendid  arrogance,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of  fire  under  the 
arch  of  his  casque.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  noise  and 
pomp  were  like  wine  to  him,  and  that  his  pride  blazed  like 
a  beacon  in  a  wind. 

"  Gorlois,  great  Gorlois  !  "  thundered  the  crowd. 

By  the  palace  there  was  such  a  press  that  the  white 
horse  came  to  a  halt,  hemmed  in  by  a  sea  of  vociferous 
faces.  Igraine,  in  a  gown  of  violet,  was  leaning  from  her 
statue,  and  looking  at  Gorlois.  Her  glance  seemed  to 
magnetise  him,  for  he  turned  and  stared  full  at  the  girl  as 
she  stood  slightly  above  him  in  the  glory  of  her  beauty  and 
her  pride. 

Long  looked  Gorlois,  like  a  man  smitten  with  a  sudden 
charm.  Then  he  wrenched  the  coronet  from  his  casque, 
and  spurring  his  horse  through  the  crowd,  rode  close  to  the 
statue  whose  knees  were  clasped  by  Igraine's  arm.  It  was 
the  statue  of  Fame  crowned  by  Love  with  a  wreath  of 
laurels.  So,  Gorlois,  with  head  bowed,  held  up  the  coronet 
on  the  cross  of  his  sword,  and  gave  Igraine  his  glory. 


II 

SPLENDID  in  arms,  magnificent  in  fortune,  Gorlois  of 
Cornwall  held  high  place  in  the  war  lore  and  romances  of 
the  green  isle  of  Britain.  Ask  any  pikeman  or  gallowglass 
whose  crest  he  would  have  advance  in  the  van  in  the  tough 
tussle  of  a  charge  home,  and  he  would  tell  you  of  Gorlois 
or  of  Uther.  Question  any  merchant  as  to  the  most 
prolific  purse  in  the  kingdom,  and  he  would  beam  seraphi- 
cally  and  talk  to  you  of  Gorlois.  So  much  for  the  man's 
reputation. 

Physically  he  was  tall,  big-chested,  lean-limbed,  with 
a  square  jaw  and  eyes  that  shone  ever  alert,  as  though 
watching  a  knife  in  an  enemy's  hand.  You  could  read  the 


GORLOIS  107 

Swift,  soaring,  masterful  spirit  of  him  in  the  bleak  lines  of 
his  handsome  face,  and  the  soldierly  carriage  of  his  head. 
He  was  quick  as  a  hawk,  supple  and  springy  as  a  willow, 
keen  and  eager  in  his  action  as  a  born  fighter  should  be. 
When  you  saw  him  move,  the  lean  hard  fibre  of  him  seemed 
as  tense  and  tough  as  the  string  of  a  five-foot  bow.  Though 
he  might  seem  to  the  eye  all  impulse,  there  was  a  leopard 
reason  in  him  that  made  him  the  more  formidable.  He  was 
no  mere  fighting  machine — rather  a  man  of  brain  and  sinew 
whose  cunning  went  far  to  back  his  strength. 

Meliograunt  ruled  in  Cornwall  in  those  days,  Melio- 
graunt  who  was  to  rear  young  Tristram  for  the  plaguing  of 
Mark,  and  the  love  of  the  fair  Isoult.  Gorlois  was  Melio- 
graunt's  nephew,  holding  many  castles,  woods,  and  wild 
coastlands  towards  Lyonesse,  lording  it  also  over  other  lands 
in  Britain,  houses  in  London  and  Winchester,  and  some 
mountainous  regions  in  Gore,  where  Urience  held  sway. 
Mordaunt  had  been  his  father,  a  great  knight  who  had  done 
many  brave  deeds  in  his  day.  His  grandsire,  Gravaine, 
famed  for  his  wisdom,  had  fought  abroad  and  died  in  battle. 
Gorlois  had  ancestry  enough  to  breed  worship  in  him,  and 
after  Ambrosius  and  black  Uther  he  held  undoubted  pre- 
cedence of  all  knights  in  Britain. 

Unblemished  fortune  is  not  always  the  nurse  best  suited 
to  the  dandling  of  a  man's  mind.  It  had  been  so  with 
Gorlois.  He  was  one  of  those  beings  whose  life  seemed  to 
promise  nothing  but  triumphal  processions  and  perpetual 
bays  of  victory.  Selfishness  is  such  a  glittering  garment 
that  it  needs  a  great  light  to  reveal  its  .true  texture  to  the 
wearer.  Flattered,  praised,  obeyed,  bent  to,  it  became  as 
natural  for  Gorlois  to  expect  the  homage  of  circumstance 
as  to  look  for  the  obedience  of  his  cook.  There  was  much 
that  was  Greek  about  him  in  the  worst  sense,  a  certain 
sensuous  brilliancy  that  aimed  at  making  life  a  surfeit  of 
rare  sensations,  with  an  infinite  indifference  for  the  hearts  of 
others.  Gorlois  liked  to  see  life  swinging  round  him  like  a 
dance  while  he  stood  pedestalled  in  the  centre,  an  earthly  Jove. 


108  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

The  man  had  given  Igraine  his  coronet  on  the  cross  of 
his  great  sword.  That  meant  much  for  Gorlois.  He  was 
not  a  gentleman  who  had  need  to  trouble  his  wits  about 
women,  for  there  were  many  enough  ready  to  ogle  their 
eyes  out  in  his  service.  Yet  in  his  keen  way  he  had  con- 
ceived a  strong  liking  for  the  girl's  face.  A  species  of 
sudden  admiration  had  leapt  out  on  him,  and  brought  him 
in  some  wonder  to  a  realisation  of  the  power  of  a  pair  of 
eyes.  Igraine  was  such  a  one  as  would  attract  the  man. 
In  the  first  place  she  was  very  fair  to  look  upon,  a  point  of 
some  importance.  She  was  tall,  big  of  body,  and  built  for 
grace  and  strength,  things  pleasant  to  Gorlois's  humour. 
Above  all  she  was  proud  and  implacable,  no  giggling  franion 
hardly  worth  the  kissing,  and  Gorlois  had  grown  past  the  first 
blush  of  experiences  of  heart.  He  was  sage  enough  to  know 
that  a  woman  lightly  won  is  often  soon  lost,  or  not  worth 
the  winning.  Let  a  man's  soul  sweat  in  the  taming  of  her, 
and  there  is  some  chance  of  his  making  an  honest  bargain. 

Moreover,  like  many  a  man  of  restless,  soaring  spirit, 
Gorlois  ever  hungered  for  romance,  and  the  mysterious 
discomforts  and  satisfactions  that  hedge  the  way  into  a 
woman's  bosom.  Certain  men  are  never  happy  unless  they 
have  the  firebrand  of  love  making  red  stir  for  them  in  heart 
and  body.  Of  some  such  stuff  was  Gorlois.  He  had  a 
soul  that  doted  on  nights  spent  at  a  window  under  the  moon. 
All  the  thousand  distractions,  the  infinite  yet  atomic  cares, 
the  logical  sweats  of  reasoning  were  particularly  pleasant  to 
his  fancy.  He  loved  the  colour,  the  exultation,  the  heroism, 
the  desperate  tenderness  of  it  all.  Battle,  effort,  ambition, 
lost  half  their  sting  for  Gorlois  when  there  was  no  woman 
in  the  coil. 

Igraine's  home  was  soon  known  to  him,  thanks  to  the  apt 
vigilance  of  a  certain  page  much  in  favour  with  Gorlois 
for  mischief  and  cunning.  The  boy  had  Igraine's  habits  to 
perfection  in  a  week  or  two.  By  making  love  to  the  girl 
who  served  her,  he  put  himself  into  the  way  of  getting  almost 
any  tidings  he  required.  Every  morning  he  would  slip  out 


GORLOIS  109 

early,  meet  Igraine's  girl,  Isolde,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
garden-wall,  and,  under  cover  of  a  kiss,  he  would  inquire 
what  her  mistress  might  be  doing  that  day,  pretending,  of 
course,  that  his  interest  on  such  a  subject  merely  arose  from 
his  desire  to  have  Igraine  out  of  the  way,  and  her  girl  free. 
The  lad  quite  enjoyed  the  game,  Isolde  being  a  giggling, 
black-eyed  wench,  who  loved  mischief.  Of  course  he 
ended  by  falling  in  love  with  the  reckless  earnestness  of  a 
boy,  but  that  kept  him  well  to  business.  Betimes  he  would 
run  home  and  tell  his  master  where  Igraine  would  probably 
be  seen  that  day. 

Gorlois's  proud  face  began  to  come  into  the  girl's  life 
at  every  turn.  Igraine  would  see  him  often  from  her 
window  as  he  rode  by  on  his  white  horse,  looking  up,  and 
very  eager  to  greet  her.  He  would  pass  her  in  the  aisles  of 
the  great  basilica  in  the  market,  walking  in  gold  and  scarlet, 
amid  silks  and  cloths  from  the  East,  vases,  armour,  skins  of 
the  tiger  and  camelopard,  flowers,  fruit,  wine,  and  all 
manner  of  merchandise.  On  the  river  which  ran  by  the 
end  of  Radamanth's  garden  his  barge  often  swept  past  with 
the  noise  of  oars  and  music,  and  a  gleam  of  gold  over  the 
hurrying  water.  In  the  orchards  without  the  walls  his  face 
would  come  suddenly  upon  her  through  a  mist  of  green, 
and  she  would  be  conscious  of  his  eyes  and  the  nearness  of 
his  stride. 

One  Sunday  morning  she  found  him  laving  his  hands  in 
the  labrum  beside  her  before  entering  the  long  narthex 
porch  of  the  church,  and  he  was  near  her  all  through  the 
service,  watching  her  furtively,  noting  the  graceful  curves 
of  her  figure  as  she  knelt,  the  profusion  of  her  hair,  a 
thousand  little  things  that  are  much  to  a  man.  When  the 
sacrament  was  given,  he  knelt  close  beside  her,  and  touched 
the  cup  where  her  lips  had  been.  Apparently  Gorlois  was 
content  for  a  while  with  the  rich  delight  of  gazing.  His 
bearing  was  courteous  enough,  and  he  never  exposed  her 
to  any  public  rudeness  that  could  warrant  her  in  resenting 
his  persistent,  though  distant,  homage. 


1 10  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

The  great  baths  of  Winchester  stood  in  a  little  hollow 
near  the  southern  gate  of  the  city,  a  white  pile  of  stone  set 
about  with  quiet  gardens.  They  had  fallen  into  some  decay 
and  disrepute,  but  still  in  the  summer-time  girls  and  men 
of  the  richer  classes  went  thither  to  bathe.  On  sunny 
mornings,  in  the  great  marble  bath  of  the  women,  girls 
would  flash  their  white  limbs,  and  sport  like  Naiads  in  the 
laughing  water.  Afterwards  they  would  have  their  hair 
dressed  and  perfumed,  and  then  go  to  sun  themselves  in 
the  rose-walks  like  eastern  odalisques.  The  music  of  flute 
and  citheon  might  often  be  heard  in  the  grass-grown  peri- 
styles. '  The  library  attached  to  the  place  had  once  boasted 
many  scrolls  and  tomes,  but  it  had  long  ago  been  pillaged 
by  the  monks  of  the  great  abbey. 

Lilith  had  taken  Igraine  there  more  than  once.  One 
morning  Igraine  had  bathed,  tied  her  hair,  and  had  passed 
out  into  the  garden  alone.  The  place  was  of  some  size, 
boasting  twenty  acres  or  more,  full  of  winding  paths,  grass 
glades,  and  knolls  of  bushy  shrubs,  where  one  might  lose 
one's  self  as  soon  as  think.  Children  often  played  hide-and- 
seek  there,  and  idling  up  some  green  walk  you  might  catch 
a  giggling  girl,  with  hair  flying,  bursting  out  of  some  thicket 
with  a  lad  in  full  chase.  Or  in  some  shady  lawn  you  might 
come  upon  a  company  of  children  dancing  as  solemnly  as 
little  elves  to  the  sound  of  a  pipe. 

Nooks  and  grass  walks  were  almost  deserted  at  this  hour, 
the  gardens  being  most  favoured  towards  evening,  when 
the  day  was  marked  by  a  deepening  discretion.  Igraine 
had  no  purpose  in  the  place.  She  knew  that  Lilith  was 
somewhere  within  its  bounds.  She  also  knew  that  Lilith 
had  no  particular  need  of  her  that  morning,  and  as  the  day 
was  hot  and  slothful,  Igraine's  only  ambition  was  to  waste 
her  time  as  pleasantly  as  possible  till  noon. 

Turning  round  a  holly  hedge  that  hid  a  statue  of  Cupid, 
she  came  full  upon  a  woman  seated  on  the  stone  bench  that 
ringed  the  statue's  pedestal.  The  woman  wore  a  light 
blue  tunic,  and  a  purple  gown  that  ran  all  along  the 


GORLOIS  III 

seat  in  curling  masses.  She  was  combing  her  fair  hair  as 
though  she  had  only  lately  come  from  the  bath.  Her  white 
glimmering  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbow,  and  she  was  hum- 
ming a  song  to  the  sway  of  her  hair,  while  many  rings 
laughed  on  her  slim  white  fingers.  She  had  not  heard 
Igraine's  step  upon  the  grass,  but  saw  suddenly  her  shadow 
stealing  along  in  the  sun.  Lifting  her  face,  she  stared, 
knew  on  the  instant,  and  went  red  and  grey  by  turns. 
Her  comb  halted,  tangled  in  a  strand  of  hair,  and  she  was 
very  quiet,  and  big  about  the  eyes.  Igraine  remembered 
well  enough  where  she  had  seen  that  would-be  innocent 
stare,  and  that  loose  little  mouth  that  seemed  to  bud  for 
lawless  kisses. 

Morgan,  with  her  face  as  white  as  her  bosom,  drew  the 
comb  from  her  hair,  and  flourished  it  uneasily  betwixt  her 
fingers.  She  was  frightened  as  a  mouse  at  the  tall  girl 
standing  big  and  imperious  so  near,  and  her  eyes  were 
furtive  for  chance  of  flight.  Igraine  in  her  heart  was  in  no 
less  quandary  than  was  dead  Madan's  wife.  She  could 
prove  nothing  against  the  woman,  for  Pelleas  was  lost  and 
away,  and  even  the  man's  name  might  be  a  myth  likely  to 
involve  further  mystery.  She  had  as  much  to  fear  too 
from  Morgan's  tongue,  as  Morgan  had  from  her  knowledge 
of  that  night  in  the  island  manor. 

Morgan,  too  flurried  for  sudden  measures,  sat  biting  her 
lips,  while  her  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  Igraine  with  a  rest- 
less caution.  Neither  woman  said  a  word  for  fully  a 
minute,  but  eyed  each  other  like  a  couple  of  cats,  each 
waiting  for  the  other  to  move.  The  shrubs  around  were 
so  still  that  you  might  imagine  they  were  listening,  while 
Cupid,  poised  on  one  foot,  drew  his  bow  very  much  at  a 
venture. 

"  Good-morning,  holy  sister." 

Igraine  said  never  a  word. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  improved  in  dre.ss,  that  olive- 
green  gown  looks  so  well  on  you." 

Still  no  retort. 


112  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  By  the  saints,  sister,  you  are  very  silent.  I  hope  you 
were  not  kept  long  on  that  island  ?  " 

Igraine  arched  her  eyebrows  and  gave  the  girl  a  stare. 
She  knew  what  a  coward  Morgan  was,  and  guessed  she  was 
in  a  holy  panic,  despite  her  cool  impudence  and  seeming 
ease  of  mind.  Woman-like,  she  conceived  a  sudden  strong 
desire  to  have  Morgan  whimpering  and  grovelling  at  her 
feet,  for  there  is  some  satisfaction  in  terrorising  an  enemy, 
even  if  one  can  do  no  more. 

"  I  presume,  madame,"  she  said,  "  you  thought  me  safely 
packed  away  in  that  island,  and  likely  to  die  of  hunger,  or 
be  taken  by  heathen." 

Morgan  forced  a  smile,  and  began  to  bind  her  hair  for 
the  sake  of  having  something  to  do  in  the  full  glare  of 
Igraine's  great  eyes. 

"You  did  not  think  I  could  swim." 

"  Madame,  I  could  think  anything  of  you.  Nuns  are  so 
clever." 

"After  all,  I  am  not  a  nun." 

"  Of  course  not.  You  could  not  be  bothered  with  vows 
in  summer-time.  I  turned  nun  myself  once  for  a  month, 
it  being  convenient." 

Igraine  began  to  fret  and  to  lose  patience. 

"  You  are  over  venturesome,  madame,"  she  said,  "  in 
coming  to  Winchester." 

«So!" 

"  I  believe  they  hang  folk  here  at  times ;  they  might 
even  break  your  slim  white  neck." 

Morgan's  lips  twitched,  but  she  did  not  blench  from  the 
argument. 

"  You  speak  of  hanging,"  she  said, "  and  the  inference  is 
rather  peculiar.  Listen  a  moment,  my  good  convent  saint : 
your  knight  on  the  black  horse  would  most  certainly  have 
needed  the  rope,  if  my  man  had  not  mended  vengeance 
with  that  poniard." 

"  Pelleas  and  the  gallows  !     You're  a  fool !  " 

Morgan  smiled  back  at  her  very  prettily. 


GORLOIS  113 

"  After  all,  your  man  did  first  murder,"  she  said. 

"  On  a  traitor  cur  in  Andredswold  !  " 

"  Madame,  my  husband." 

The  woman's  contention  was  not  so  illogical  when 
Igraine  came  to  consider  it  in  a  less  personal  light.  Morgan 
may  have  loved  the  man  Madan  for  all  she  knew,  and  she 
could  feel  for  her  in  such  a  matter.  She  looked  at  her  with 
less  scorn  for  the  moment,  and  less  injustice  of  thought. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  grieved  much,"  she  said. 

Morgan  gave  a  blank  stare. 

"  Grieved  ? " 

"  You  loved  your  husband  ?  " 

"  I  did,  while  he  lived." 

"  And  no  longer  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  use  of  wasting  one's  youth  on  a  corpse  ?  " 

Igraine  retracted  her  late  sympathy,  and  returned  to 
enmity.  Morgan  had  risen,  and  was  ruffling  herself  like  a 
swan  in  her  part  of  the  great  lady,  and  gathering  her  purple 
gown  round  her  slim  figure  with  infinite  affectation. 

"  I  cannot  see  that  we  have  cause  to  quarrel  further," 
she  suggested. 

« Indeed !  " 

"  Seemingly  we  are  quits,  good  Sister  Morality.  I  have 
lost  my  man,  you  yours." 

u  You  are  very  logical,"  said  Igraine. 

"  Why  should  we  women  grieve  ?  " 

"  Why  indeed  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  more  men  in  the  world." 

"  Madame,  I  do  not  understand  you." 

Morgan  gave  a  malicious  little  laugh  that  ended  in  a 
sneer.  She  touched  her  hair  with  her  jewelled  fingers,  blew 
a  kiss  to  Cupid,  and  again  laughed  in  her  sly  mischief- 
making  way.  In  a  moment  words  were  out  of  her  lips 
that  set  Igraine's  face  ablaze,  her  heart  at  a  canter,  and 
mulled  all  further  parley.  Morgan  saw  trouble,  dodged, 
and  ran  round  the  statue.  Igraine  was  too  quick  for  her, 
and  winding  her  fingers  into  thejvoman's  hair,  gave  her  a 


114  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

cuff  that  would  have  set  a  helmet  ringing.  Morgan  tripped 
and  fell,  dragging  Igraine  with  her,  and  for  a  moment  there 
was  a  struggle,  green  and  purple  mixed.  Igraine,  the 
heavier  and  stronger,  came  aloft  on  the  other  soon.  Then 
a  knife  flashed  out.  Morgan  got  two  quick  strokes  in,  one 
on  the  girl's  shoulder,  a  second  in  her  left  forearm.  Igraine 
lost  her  grip,  and  fell  aside  in  a  stagger  of  surprise  and  pain, 
while  Morgan,  taking  her  chance,  squirmed  away,  slipped 
up,  and  ran  like  a  rabbit.  She  was  out  of  sight  and  sound 
before  Igraine  had  got  back  her  reason. 

Here  was  a  pretty  business.  The  girl's  sleeve  was  already 
red  and  soaked,  and  the  slit  cloth  showed  a  long  red  streak 
in  the  plump  white  of  her  flesh.  Blood  was  welling  up, 
and  dripping  fast  to  the  grass  at  her  feet.  Despite  the 
smart  of  her  wounds  and  her  temper,  she  saw  it  would  be 
mere  folly  to  chase  Morgan.  Following  instinct,  she  ran 
for  home,  holding  her  right  hand  pressed  over  the  gash  in 
her  shoulder. 

In  the  main  avenue  who  should  she  meet  but  Gorlois, 
carried  in  a  litter,  and  looking  out  lazily  from  behind  half- 
drawn  curtains.  His  quick  eyes  caught  sight  of  Igraine  as 
she  passed.  He  saw  the  blood  and  the  girl's  white  face, 
and  he  was  out  of  the  litter  like  a  stag  from  cover,  and  at 
her  side,  with  spirited  concern.  Igraine  was  white  and  half 
dazed,  her  green  gown  soaked  and  stained.  Her  eyes  trembled 
up  at  Gorlois  as  she  showed  him  her  gashed  arm,  with  a  smile 
and  a  little  whimper  that  made  him  storm. 

"  Who  did  this  ?  " 

He  had  stripped  his  cloak  off,  and  was  tearing  it  into 
strips,  while  his  jaw  stiffened. 

"An  old  foe  of  mine." 

"  Describe  him." 

"  A  woman,  my  lord." 

"  The  damned  vixen.      Her  dress  ?  " 

"  Blue  tunic,  and  gown  of  purple." 

Gorlois  turned  to  certain  servants  who  stood  round 
gaping  at  the  girl  in  her  blood-stained  dress,  and  their 


GORLOIS  115 

lord  tearing  his  cloak  into  bandages  with  characteristic 
furor. 

"  Search  the  gardens  —  a  woman  in  blue  and  purple ; 
have  her  caught.  By  my  sword,  I'll  hang  her." 

He  rent  Igraine's  sleeve  to  the  shoulder,  and  wound  the 
strips  of  his  cloak  about  her  arm  with  a  strength  that  made 
her  wince. 

"  Pardon,"  he  said  in  his  quick,  fierce  way  ;  "  this  will 
serve  a  season  ;  stern  heart,  good  surgeon." 

Igraine  smiled,  and  made  light  of  it,  while  he  knotted  the 
bandage.  Some  of  his  men  had  scattered  among  the  shrubs 
and  into  the  dark  alleys  of  the  place,  for  Igraine  could  hear 
them  trampling  and  calling  to  each  other.  While  she 
listened,  and  before  she  could  hinder  him,  Gorlois  had  lifted 
her  as  though  she  had  been  but  a  sheaf  of  corn,  and  laid  her 
in  the  litter.  He  drew  the  curtains.  The  bearers  were  at 
the  poles,  and  setting  off  at  a  good  stride  they  were  soon  in 
the  town. 

By  the  time  they  reached  Radamanth's  doorway  Igraine, 
despite  her  spirit,  was  faint  from  loss  of  blood,  and  all 
atremble.  Gorlois,  tersely  imperious,  lifted  her  up  as  she 
lay  half  dazed  and  stupid,  carried  her  in  his  arms  into  the 
house,  and  taking  guidance  from  a  white-faced  maid,  bore 
Igraine  above  to  her  chamber,  and  laid  her  on  her  bed. 
Then  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  leaving  her  to  the  women, 
hurried  off  to  send  skilled  succour. 


Ill 

IT  was  not  long  before  Gildas,  the  court  physician,  a  dear 
old  scoundrel  with  a  white  beard  and  a  portentous  face,  came 
down  in  state  to  attend  on  Igraine.  He  was  an  old  gentle- 
man of  most  solemn  soul.  His  dignity  was  so  tremendous 
a  thing,  that  you  might  have  imagined  him  a  solitary  Atlas 
holding  the  whole  world's  health  upon  his  shoulders. 


Il6  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

He  soon  dabbled  his  fingers  in  Igraine's  wounds  that 
morning,  dropped  in  oil,  and  balmed  them  with  myrrh  and 
unguents  under  a  dressing  of  clean  cloth.  He  frowned  all 
the  time,  as  was  his  custom  in  the  sick  chamber,  as  though 

*  *  D 

wisdom  lay  heavy  on  his  soul,  or  at  least  as  though  he 
wished  folk  to  think  so.  The  only  time  you  saw  Gildas 
smile  was  when  you  payed  him  a  fee  or  complimented  him 
upon  his  knowledge.  Tickle  his  pocket  or  his  vanity,  and 
he  beamed  on  you.  That  morning  he  told  Radamanth  that 
his  niece's  wounds  were  serious,  but  that  he  trusted  that  they 
would  heal  innocently,  treated  as  they  had  been  by  credited 
skill.  Gildas  always  pulled  a  long  face  over  a  patient's  possi- 
bilities ;  such  discretion  kept  him  from  pitfalls,  and  enabled 
him  to  claim  all  the  credit  when  matters  turned  put  happily. 

The  streaks  of  scarlet  in  the  white  waste  of  skin  soon 
died  cleanly  into  mere  bands  of  pink,  and  Igraine  had  little 
trouble  from  her  wounds,  thanks  to  the  great  Gildas.  In 
fact,  she  was  in  bed  but  three  days,  while  Lilith  played 
nurse,  chatted  and  sang  to  her,  or  leant  at  the  open  window 
to  tell  her  of  those  who  passed  in  the  street.  Master  Gildas 
came  and  went  morning  and  evening  with  the  prodigious 
regularity  of  the  sun.  The  girls  aped  him  behind  his  back, 
and  Igraine,  with  some  ingratitude  to  science,  made  Lilith 
empty  the  ruby-coloured  physic  out  of  the  window.  It 
happened  to  spatter  a  lean  booby  of  a  man  as  he  passed,  who, 
looking  up,  flattered  himself  that  Lilith  must  have  sprinkled 
him  with  scented  water  by  way  of  showing  her  affection. 
So  much  for  Gildas's  rose-water  and  flowers  of  dill. 

The  man  of  physic  marched  each  day  like  a  god  into 
Gorlois's  house  to  tell  how  the  Lady  Igraine  fared  at  his 
hands.  Such  patronage  was  worth  much  to  Gildas,  and 
knowing  how  the  wind  blew,  he  puffed  religiously  upon  the 
new-kindled  fire.  The  girl's  glamour  had  caught  up  Gorlois 
in  a  golden  net.  He  had  loved  to  look  upon  her  and  to 
dream,  but  now  the  perfume  of  her  hair,  the  warm  softness 
of  her  body,  the  very  odour  of  her  shed  and  scarlet  blood 
were  memories  in  him  that  would  not  fade. 


GORLOIS  117 

One  evening  a  posy  of  flowers  came  tumbling  in  at 
Igraine's  window. 

Lilith  looked  out,  and  saw  Gorlois. 

u  For  the  Lady  Igraine,"  were  his  words. 

Lilith  smiled  down,  and  ventured  to  tell  him  that  Igraine 
was  much  beholden  to  his  courtesy  and  succour,  and  would 
thank  him  with  her  own  lips  when  well  of  her  wounds. 
She  took  the  flowers  to  Igraine,  who  was  listening  in  bed  in 
the  twilight. 

"  Shall  I  throw  a  flower  back  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  It  would  be  courteous." 

Lilith  did  so.  The  bloom  struck  Gorlois  on  the  mouth 
like  a  blown  kiss.  The  man  put  the  thing  in  his  bosom 
with  a  great  smile,  and  went  home  to  spend  some  hours  like 
a  star-gazer  in  his  garden,  while  his  musicians  tuned  their 
strings  behind  the  bushes.  At  such  a  season  Gorlois  loved 
sound  and  colour.  The  voices,  sweetly  melancholic, 
thrilled  up  into  the  night  — 

"  Her  head  is  of  brighter  gold  than  the  broom-flower, 
Her  breast  like  foam  under  her  green  tunic  ; 
Like  a  summer  sky  at  night  are  her  glances  ; 
Her  fingers  are  as  wood  anemones  in  a  daze  of  dew  ; 
Of  her  lips,  —  who  shall  tell  ! 
The  gates  of  a  sunset 
Where  love  dies. 
Her  limbs  are  like  May-blossoms 
Bedded  on  a  green  couch  : 
The  night  sighs  for  her, 
And  for  the  touch  of  her  hand." 

Of  course  Morgan  had  escaped  capture.  Gorlois's  men 
had  hunted  an  hour  or  more,  and  had  caught  nothing,  not 
even  a  glimpse  of  the  purple  gown  for  which  they  searched. 
Radamanth,  who  had  had  the  affair  from  Gorlois's  own  lips, 
came  and  told  Igraine,  and  began  to  ask  her  who  this  woman 
foe  of  hers  was.  Igraine  put  him  off  with  a  fable.  She  had 
no  thought  of  letting  him  have  knowledge  of  her  love  for 


Il8  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Pelleas,  and  she  was  glad  in  measure  that  Morgan  had 
escaped  capture,  and  so  left  her  secret  in  oblivion.  The 
woman  might  have  proved  troublesome  if  brought  to  bay, 
for  she  had  as  much  right  to  claim  the  truth  as  had 
Igraine.  Better  let  a  snake  go  than  take  it  by  the  tail. 

In  a  week  or  so  there  was  nothing  left  to  mark  the 
incident  save  the  red  lines  in  Igraine's  white  skin.  Flowers 
and  fruit  came  daily  in  from  Gorlois,  and  every  evening 
there  was  music  under  the  window,  till  she  began  to  con- 
sider these  perpetual  courtesies.  She  was  woman  enough  to 
know  whither  they  all  tended.  As  for  Radamanth,  he  was 
more  kind  to  her  than  ever,  seeing  how  the  wind  might 
blow  favours  into  his  ready  lap.  Gorlois  was  a  great  and 
noble  gentleman,  and  the  goldsmith  had  an  intense  respect 
for  the  nobility. 

The  very  first  day  that  Igraine  walked  abroad  again 
after  her  seclusion,  she  fell  in  straight  with  Gorlois.  By 
Gildas's  advice,  she  had  gone,  presumably  for  her  health's 
sake,  to  the  baths  with  Ltlith ;  and  Gorlois,  warned  by  the 
leech  himself,  followed  alone,  and  overtook  them  near  the 
porch.  He  was  very  gracious,  very  sympathetic,  very 
splendid.  He  begged  a  meeting  with  Igraine  after  she  had 
bathed,  and  since  the  girl  had  something  in  her  heart  that 
made  her  wish  to  speak  with  him,  she  consented,  and  left 
him  in  the  laconicum,  proposing  to  meet  him  in  the  rose- 
walk  an  hour  later.  Truth  to  tell,  she  intended  question- 
ing him  as  to  Pelleas,  whether  Gorlois  had  heard  of  a 
knight  so  named  ;  and  also  as  to  Uther,  whether  he  had 
yet  been  heard  of  in  any  region  of  Britain.  She  knew 
Gorlois  would  take  her  consent  as  favour.  Still,  she  imag- 
ined she  could  venture  a  little  for  her  heart's  sake  without 
much  prick  of  conscience. 

An  hour  later,  true  to  her  word,  she  went  alone  into  the 
rose-walk,  a  grassy  pathway  banked  with  yews,  and  hemmed 
with  a  rich  tangle  of  red  blooms.  Gorlois  was  there 
waiting  as  for  a  tryst.  He  was  full  of  smiles  and  staunch 
glances  as  he  led  her  to  a  seat  that  was  set  back  in  an  alcove, 


GO  R  LOIS  1 19 

carved  from  the  dense  green  of  the  yews,  where  they 
might  talk  at  leisure,  and  out  of  sight.  Igraine's  hair  lay 
loosened  over  her  shoulders  to  dry  in  the  sun.  It  had  been 
perfumed,  and  the  scent  of  it  swept  over  Gorlois  like  a  violet 
mist.  He  sat  watching  her  for  a  while  in  silence,  as  she 
plied  her  comb  with  the  sun-shaken  masses  pouring  over 
her  face  like  ruddy  smoke. 

u  Lady  Igraine,"  he  said  at  length. 

The  girl's  eyes  glimmered  at  him  slantwise  from  behind 
her  hair. 

"  I  knew  your  father,  Malgo,  before  his  death." 

Igraine  merely  nodded. 

"  I  am  claiming  to  be  the  friend  of  his  daughter,  seeing 
that  I  have  learnt  the  very  colour  of  her  several  girdles, 
the  number  and  pattern  of  her  gowns  since  I  rode  into 
Winchester." 

The  venture  in  flattery  was  perhaps  more  suggestive 
than  Igraine  could  have  wished. 

u  You  must  waste  much  time,  my  lord." 

"  But  little." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  so  poor  a  wardrobe,  that  you  have 
fathomed  the  whole  of  it  in  less  than  a  month.  To  tell  the 
truth,  when  I  came  into  Winchester,  I  had  only  one  gown, 
and  that  rather  ragged." 

"  They  did  not  give  you  green  and  gold  at  Avangel  ?  " 

"  No,  the  good  women  wore  grey  to  typify  the  colour  of 
their  souls." 

Gorlois  laughed  in  his  keen  quiet  fashion.  The  girl's 
eyes  were  wonderfully  bright  and  subtle,  and  he  had  never 
seen  such  a  splendour  of  hair.  He  longed  to  finger  it,  to 
let  it  run  through  his  fingers  like  amber  wine.  Leaning 
one  elbow  on  the  stone  back  of  the  seat,  and  his  head  on  his 
palm,  he  watched  the  silver  comb  rippling  at  its  work,  with 
a  kind  of  dreamy  complacency. 

The  girl's  voice  broke  out  suddenly  upon  him. 

"  My  lord  ? " 

Gorlois  attended. 


120  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  You  know  many  of  the  knights  and  gentlemen  famed 
for  arms  in  Britain  ?  " 

"  I  may  so  boast  myself." 

"  I  was  once  befriended,  a  piece  of  passing  courtesy,  yet 
I  have  always  been  curious  to  learn  the  character  and  estate 
of  the  man  who  did  me  this  service.  Have  you  heard  of  a 
knight  named  Pelleas  ?  " 

Gorlois  fingered  his  sharp-peaked  black  beard,  and  looked 
blankly  irresponsive. 

"  I  have  never  known  such  a  knight,"  he  said. 

"  Strange." 

"  Never  so.  We  men  of  the  woods  and  moors  often  ride 
under  false  colours,  sometimes  to  try  our  friends  on  the  sly, 
sometimes  to  escape  cognisance.  The  man  who  befriended 
you  may  have  been  Pelleas  in  your  company." 

Igraine  cut  in  with  a  laugh. 

u  And  Ambrosius  at  home,"  she  said  ;  "  even  Princes 
love  masquerading  in  strange  arms.  Meadow-flower  that 
I  am,  I  have  never  seen  the  stately  folk  of  the  court  — 
Ambrosius  or  Uther.  I  have  heard  Uther  is  an  ugly  man." 

"  If  strength  makes  a  man  ugly,  Uther  may  claim 
ugliness." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Picture  a  dark  man  with  black  hair,  eyes  packed  away 
under  heavy  brows,  a  straight  mouth,  and  a  great  clean- 
shaven jaw  that  looks  sullen  as  death." 

"  Not  beautiful  in  words." 

Gorlois  stretched  his  shoulders,  and  half  yawned  behind 
his  hand. 

"  Uther  is  a  man  with  a  conscience  like  a  north  wind," 
he  said  ;  "  always  lashing  him  into  tremendous  effort  for  the 
sake  of  duty.  He  has  the  head  and  neck  of  a  lion,  the  grip 
of  a  bear.  You  have  never  known  Uther  till  you  have  seen 
him  in  battle.  Then  he  is  like  a  mountain  thundering 
down  against  a  sea,  a  black  flood  plunging  through  a  pine 
forest.  A  quaint,  gentle,  devilish,  God-ridden  madman  ;  I 
can  paint  him  no  other  way." 


GORLOIS  121 

Igraine  laughed  softly  to  herself. 

"  A  man  worth  seeing,"  she  said. 

"  I  should  judge  so." 

"  Tell  me,  is  it  true  that  Uther  has  gone  into  the  wilds, 
and  been  seen  of  no  man  many  days  ? " 

u  Uther  left  Winchester  more  than  two  months  ago,  and 
no  word  of  him  has  come  to  Ambrosius." 

"  Curious." 

"  Madame,  nothing  is  curious  in  Uther.  If  I  were  to 
hear  some  day  that  he  had  ridden  down  to  Hades  to  fight 
a  pitched  battle  with  Satan,  I  should  say,  < Poor  Satan,! 
warrant  he  has  a  sore  head.' ': 

"  Indeed !  "  quoth  Igraine. 

She  shook  her  hair,  tilted  her  chin,  and  looked  at  Gorlois 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  She  guessed  her  power,  was 
young,  and  a  woman.  It  tempted  her  to  read  this  creature 
called  "  man  "  in  his  various  forms  and  phases,  and  hold  his 
heart  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand.  Her  interest  in  Gorlois 
was  no  discourtesy  to  her  love  for  Pelleas.  She  had  seen  few 
men  in  her  time ;  they  seemed  strange  beings,  strong  yet 
weak,  wise  yet  very  foolish,  sometimes  heroic,  yet  utter 
children. 

Gorlois,  who  had  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  beheld  her  as  in  an 
unusual  mist.  He  was  warming  to  life,  for  his  brain  seemed 
full  of  the  sound  of  harping,  and  his  blood  blithe  with 
summer.  Stretching  out  a  hand  he  touched  Igraine's  hair 
as  it  poured  over  her  shoulders,  for  the  red  gold  threads 
seemed  magnetic  to  his  fingers,  and  the  glimmer  of  her  eyes 
made  his  tough  flesh  creep. 

"  You  have  wonderful  hair,"  he  said. 

"  I  learnt  that  long  ago,"  drawing  the  strand  away. 

"  The  dawn  of  knowledge." 

"  It  reaches  not  so  very  far  from  my  feet." 

Igraine  hung  out  a  flag,  as  it  were,  to  try  the  man.  She 
knew  the  look  of  Pelleas's  eyes,  and  she  wanted  Gorlois  for 
comparison.  Standing  up,  she  shook  the  glistening  shroud 
about  her  while  it  seemed  to  drop  perfumes  and  to  spark  out 


122  UTHER  AND  fGRAINE 

passion.  The  man's  malady  showed  plainly  enough  on  his 
face,  but  his  eyes  did  not  please  Igraine.  There  was  too 
much  selfishness,  not  enough  abasement.  She  knew  Pelleas 
would  have  looked  at  her  as  though  she  was  a  saint  in  a 
church,  and  he  but  a  lad  from  the  brown  ploughland. 
Igraine  thought  that  she  loved  mute  devotion  far  better  than 
the  bold  impatient  hunger  on  Gorlois's  face. 

The  man  leant  back  and  tilted  his  beard  at  her,  while  his 
eyes  were  half  shut  for  the  sun. 

"  I  have  heard  it  told  that  women  are  ambitious.  Is  it 
truth  ?  " 

Igraine,  all  gravity  again,  with  her  tentative  mischief 
banished,  looked  at  her  knees,  and  said  she  could  not  tell. 
Gorlois  waxed  subtle. 

11  Are  you  ambitious,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  Ambitious,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Have  you  never  wished  to  stand  out  like  a  bright  peak 
above  the  world  ?  " 

«  No." 

u  Or  to  have  the  glory  of  your  beauty  filling  the  gate  of 
fame  like  a  scarlet  sky  ?  " 

Igraine  forced  a  titter. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  a  poet,  sir." 

"  Only  a  fool,  madame." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  All  poets  are  fools." 

"  How  do  you  contrive  that  ?  " 

"  Because  they  are  for  ever  praising  women." 

"  And  yet  you  are  a  poet,  my  lord  !  " 

"  How  could  I  be  else,  madame,  since  I  am  a  man  ?  " 

Gorlois  took  a  deep  breath,  and  smiled  at  the  dark  yews, 
sombre  and  mysterious  behind  their  belt  of  glowing  roses. 
Igraine  was  watching  his  face  in  some  uneasiness.  It  gave 
the  profile  of  a  strong,  stark  man,  whose  every  feature  spelt 
alert  daring  and  great  hardihood  of  mind.  There  was  a 
keen,  half-cruel  look  about  the  tight  lips  and  impatient  eyes. 
She  was  contrasting  him  with  Pelleas  in  her  heart,  and  the 


GORLOIS  123 

dark,  brooding  face  of  lion-like  mould  that  so  haunted  her 
left  little  glory  for  Gorlois's  lighter,  leaner  countenance. 

They  were  both  strong  men,  but  she  guessed  instinctively 
which  was  the  stronger. 

Gorlois  turned  suavely  again,  with  his  courage  strung  like 
a  steel  bow. 

"  I  am  a  queer  fellow,"  he  said. 

Igraine  began  to  bind  her  hair. 

"  If  I  ever  loved  a  woman  —  " 

"  Well,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  She  could  be  ambitious  to  her  heart's  content.  The 
more  her  pride  flamed,  the  better  I  should  like  her." 

Igraine  frowned. 

"  She  would  be  intolerable." 

Gorlois  arched  his  eyebrows,  and  covered  his  convictions 
with  a  laugh. 

"  Shall  I  tell  how  I  should  win  her  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  quaint  tale." 

"  In  the  beginning,  I  should  half-kill  any  man  who 
braved  it  out  that  she  was  not  the  comeliest  woman  in 
Britain." 

"  Somewhat  harsh,  my  lord,  but  emphatic." 

"  I  should  make  her  the  envy  of  every  lady,  dame,  and 
damoselle  in  the  land." 

"  Not  wise." 

"Like  a  golden  Helen  should  she  rise  in  the  east  ;  blood 
should  flow  about  her  feet  like  water ;  I  would  tear"  down 
kingdoms  to  pile  her  up  a  throne.  Such  should  be  my 
wooing." 

Igraine  looked  at  her  lap,  and  said  never  a  word  for  a 
minute  or  more.  All  these  heroics  were  rather  hollow  to 
her  ear,  though  she  did  not  doubt  the  man's  sincerity 
towards  himself,  and  his  earnest  mind  to  please  her.  Then 
she  asked  Gorlois  a  very  simple  question. 

"  Imagine,  my  lord,  that  the  woman  loved  some  other 
man  ? " 

Gorlois's  answer  came  swift  off"  his  tongue. 


124  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

"  I  should  meet  him  in  open  field,  sword  to  sword,  and 
shield  to  shield,  and  kill  him." 

Igraine  started  suddenly,  grave  and  grey  as  any  beads- 
woman. She  did  not  think  Pelleas  would  have  taught  any 
such  doctrine. 

"  To  you,  that  is  love  ?  "  she  asked. 

"What  else!" 

Igraine  thrust  her  silver  bodkin  into  her  hair  with  some 
vigour ;  there  was  no  mirth  or  patience  in  her. 

"  I  name  it  murder." 

"  Madame  !  " 

"  Stark,  selfish  murder." 

Gorlois  spread  his  hands  and  laughed. 

"  What  is  love  ?  "  he  asked. 

«  Should  I  know  !  " 

"  Stark  selfishness,  —  nothing  more." 

Igraine  thought  of  Pelleas,  and  the  way  he  had  left  her 
for  knowledge  of  her  imagined  vows.  Something  in  her 
heart  told  her  that  that  was  love  indeed  that  had  clasped 
thorns  in  the  struggle  to  embrace  truth.  Therewith  she 
wished  Gorlois  a  very  formal  good-morning,  refused  his 
escort,  and  went  straight  home  with  the  clear  conviction 
that  she  had  learnt  something  to  her  credit.  Her  talk  with 
Gorlois  had  set  a  brighter  halo  about  Pelleas's  head. 

Gorlois  of  Cornwall  was  nothing  if  not  subtle.  A  selfish 
man  of  diplomatic  mind  may  reach  the  very  zenith  of  un- 
selfishness to  work  his  ends.  Gorlois  had  so  studied  the 
expediencies  and  discretions  of  his  purpose  that  even  his  love, 
headstrong  though  it  may  have  been,  was  for  the  time  being 
harnessed  to  the  chariot  of  circumspection,  whence  intellect 
drove  with  steady  hand.  He  had  discovered  for  himself 
that  Igraine  was  of  sterner,  prouder  stuff  than  the  general 
mob  of  women,  and  that  he  could  not  count  much  upon 
her  vanity.  She  was  to  be  won  by  honour,  stark,  unflinch- 
ing honour,  and  by  such  alone,  and  Gorlois,  thanks  to  the 
no  mean  wit  that  was  in  him,  had  judged  that  to  his  credit. 
He  set  about  winning  her  at  first  with  a  consistency  that 


GORLOIS  125 

was  admirable,  and  a  wisdom  that  would  have  honoured 
Nestor. 

Naturally  enough,  Radamanth  was  amazed.  Gorlois, 
one  of  the  first  men  in  Britain,  sitting  in  a  goldsmith's 
parlour  and  soliciting  his  patronage  and  countenance  with 
a  modest  manliness  !  Radamanth  stroked  his  beard,  strove 
to  appear  at  ease  under  so  intense  an  obligation,  struggled 
to  wed  servility  with  a  new-found  sense  of  importance. 
The  whole  business  was  most  astonishing ;  not  that  Gorlois 
should  love  the  daughter  of  Malgo  of  the  Redlands,  but  that 
he  should  come  frankly  to  a  Winchester  merchant  and 
make  such  a  Minos  of  him.  Radamanth  beamed,  stuttered, 
excused  himself,  crept,  condescended,  in  one  breath.  When 
Gorlois  had  gone,  the  good  man  sat  down  to  think  in  a 
sweat  of  wonder.  Probably  he  would  find  himself  feasting 
with  the  king  before  long,  and  certainly  it  might  prove 
excellent  for  trade. 

After  a  cup  of  wine  and  a  biscuit  to  restore  his  faculties, 
he  sent  for  Igraine,  who  was  in  the  garden,  and  prepared  to 
parade  his  news  with  a  most  benevolent  pleasure.  He  took 
a  most  solemn  and  serious  mood,  bowed  her  to  a  chair  in 
magnificent  fashion,  and  began  in  style. 

"  My  dear  niece,  I  have  great  honour  to  lay  before  you." 

Igraine,  who  had  heard  nothing  of  Gorlois's  visit,  merely 
waited  for  Radamanth  to  unfold,  with  a  mild  and  silent 
curiosity.  The  old  man  was  big  and  benignant  with  the 
news  he  had,  and  when  he  began  to  speak  he  rolled  his 
words  with  the  sonorous  satisfaction  of  a  poet  reading  his 
verses  to  patrons  in  some  Roman  peristyle. 

"  Lady  Igraine,"  he  said,  "  honour  is  pleasant  to  an  old 
man,  and  reverence  welcome  as  savoury  pottage.  Yet, 
honour  to  those  he  loves  is  even  sweeter  to  him  than  honour 
to  himself.  In  honouring  a  kinswoman  of  mine,  a  certain 
noble  gentleman  has  poured  oil  of  delicious  flattery  on  my 
grey  head,  and  treated  me  to  such  an  exhibition  of  grace, 
frankness,  and  courtesy,  that  my  heart  still  warms  to  him. 
Perhaps,  my  dear  niece,  you  can  guess  to  whom  I  refer." 


126  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Igraine  thrilled  to  a  sudden  thought  —  a  thought  of  Pel- 
leas.  "  I  cannot  tell,"  she  said. 

Radamanth  could  have  winked,  only  in  his  present  exalted 
frame  of  mind  he  remembered  that  such  an  expression  was 
neither  dignified  nor  courtly.  If  he  were  to  become  the 
associate  of  noble  folk,  it  behoved  him  to  raise  up  new  ideals, 
and  so  he  contented  himself  with  a  most  ingenuous  smile. 

"  Hear,  then,"  he  said,  "  that  my  noble  visitor  was  the 
Count  Gorlois." 

«  Gorlois  !  " 

"  Exactly." 

Radamanth  believed  Igraine  wholly  overwhelmed.  He 
waxed  more  and  more  patriarchal,  till  his  very  beard  seemed 
to  grow  in  dignity. 

"  Believe  me,  a  most  honourable  man.  Gentlemen  of 
his  position  might  well  fancy  other  methods  —  well,  never 
mind  that.  Count  Gorlois  came  to  me,  like  a  man,  to 
frankly  crave  my  sanction  for  a  betrothal." 

Igraine  stared,  admired  Gorlois's  excellent  plan  for  netting 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  at  one  swoop,  but  said  nothing. 
Radamanth  prosed  on. 

"  Count  Gorlois  besought  me  in  most  courtly  and  flatter- 
ing fashion  to  countenance  him  in  his  claims.  He  would 
have  everything  done  in  the  light,  he  said,  in  honourable, 
manly,  and  open  fashion  —  no  secret  loitering  after  dark, 
or  sly  kisses  under  hedges.  Mark  the  gentleman,  dear 
niece." 

The  goldsmith  idled  over  the  words  as  though  they  were 
fat  morsels  of  flattery,  and  Igraine  had  never  seen  him  look 
so  eminently  happy  before.  She  understood  quite  well  that 
Gorlois's  move  had  inspired  him  into  complete  and  glowing 
partisanship,  and  that  she  was  to  have  those  sage  words  of 
advice  that  young  folk  love  so  much.  Radamanth  climbed 
down,  meanwhile,  to  material  things,  and  began  to  knock 
off  Gorlois's  possessions  in  practical  fashion  on  his  fingers. 

"A  grand  match,"  he  said.  "There  are  the  castles  in 
Cornwall  —  Terabil  and  Tintagel ;  the  lands  in  Gore  and 


GORLOIS  127 

elsewhere;  the  palace* in  London;  and  the  great  house  here 
by  the  river.  In  Logria  he  has  lands,  I  have  heard,  —  miles 
of  fat  pastures,  woods,  and  many  manors,  lying  towards  the 
great  oaks  of  Brederwode.  The  man  is  as  rich  as  any  in 
Britain,  and  if  death  took  Ambrosius  or  Uther — " 

Igraine  cut  in  upon  his  verbosity. 

"  What  did  you  tell  him,  uncle  ?  " 

Radamanth  stared  at  her,  with  his  ringers  still  figuring. 

»  Tell  him,  child  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  What  a  thing  to  ask.  Of  course  I  promised  to  further 
his  cause  with  you  in  every  way  possible.  I  said  we  should 
soon  need  the  priest." 

Igraine  groaned  in  spirit. 

"  It  is  all  useless,"  she  said. 

«  What !  " 

"  I  have  no  scrap  of  love  for  this  man." 

Now  Radamanth  had  never  heard  a  word  of  Pelleas,  for 
Igraine  had  cautioned  Lilith  never  to  speak  to  her  father  on 
the  matter.  Like  many  old  people  who  have  spent  their 
lives  in  getting  and  possessing,  he  had  lost  that  subtle  some- 
thing that  men  call  "  soul."  Sentiment  to  him  was  a  fool- 
ish and  troublesome  thing  when  it  interfered  with  material 
advantage  or  profit,  or  barred  out  Mammon,  with  its  rod 
twined  with  red  roses.  Consequently  he  was  taken  aback 
by  Igraine's  cool  reception  of  so  momentous  a  blessing. 
He  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  her. 

"  My  dear  niece." 

There  was  such  chagrin  in  his  voice  that  Igraine,  re- 
membering his  many  kindnesses,  hung  her  head  and  felt 
unhappy. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,"  she  said ;  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
speak  of  this  more." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  the  honour,  the  fame,  the  noise 
of  it!" 

Igraine  almost  smiled  at  his  palpable  dismay,  for  she 
knew  that  her  words  must  have  flustered  him  not  a 


128  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

little.  Radamanth  mopped  his  bald  head,  for  the  season 
was  sultry. 

"  I  am  astounded,"  he  said. 

«  Uncle  ! " 

"  Let  me  reason  with  you." 

u  Love  is  not  reason." 

"No,  niece,  it  is  prejudice.  Yet  I  assure  you  Gorlois  is 
a  most  noble  soul." 

11  If  he  were  a  seraph,  uncle,  I  could  not  love  him." 

"  You  women  are  all  fancy.  Why,  you  have  hardly  seen 
the  colour  of  him.  Come,  now  !  " 

"  I  do  not  need  to  see  more  of  Gorlois." 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  my  wife  never  loved  me  till  we 
had  been  married  a  month,  and  she  had  learnt  my  fibre." 

Igraine  thought  a  moment.  Then  she  asked  Radamanth 
a  question. 

"  Do  you  love  Lilith  ?  " 

"Why,  girl,  what  a  question." 

"  Would  you  marry  her  to  a  man  she  did  not  love  or  trust, 
simply  because  it  brought  gold  ?  " 

Radamanth  saw  himself  rounded  in  the  argument  like  a 
rat  in  a  corner.  He  sat  stroking  his  beard,  and  striving  to 
look  pleased. 

"  Think  over  it,  my  dear,"  he  said  presently. 

"  There  is  no  need." 

"  Gorlois  will  woo  you  like  a  hero." 

"  Let  him.      He  will  accomplish  nothing." 

"  It  would  be  a  grand  match." 

Igraine  jumped  up,  kissed  him  to  show  she  bore  no  ill 
will,  and  ran  away  much  troubled  to  find  Lilith  in  the  garden. 
She  flung  herself  down  beside  the  girl  in  the  bower  of  laurels, 
and  told  her  all  that  passed  that  morning  in  Radamanth's 
parlour.  Lilith  listened  with  her  brown  eyes  deep  with 
thought,  and  a  quiet  wonder.  When  Igraine  had  finished, 
Lilith  took  both  her  hands  in  hers,  and,  kneeling  before  her, 
looked  up  into  her  face. 

"  What  will  you  do,  Igraine  ?  " 


GORLOIS  129 

"  Need  you  ask,  dear  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  You  love  Pelleas." 

Igraine  put  her  arms  round  Lilith's  neck,  and  kissed  her. 


IV 

RADAMANTH'S  words  to  the  girl  proved  very  true  before  many 
days  had  gone  ;  his  prophetic  belief  in  Gorlois's  mood  found 
abundant  justification  in  the  event.  Gorlois  had  the  warm 
imagination  of  his  race,  an  imagination  that  found  extrava- 
gance and  rich  taste  ready  ministers  to  work  his  purpose. 
Igraine,  met  by  all  manner  of  devices  on  all  possible  occa- 
sions, began  to  realise  the  cares  of  those  whom  a  purblind 
world  insists  on  smothering  with  limitless  favours. 

Flowers  were  poured  in  upon  her,  worked  into  posies, 
garlands,  shields,  harps,  crosses, — all  bearing  with  them  some 
mute  plea  for  mercy.  It  might  have  been  perpetual  May- 
day in  Radamanth's  house,  so  flowered  and  scented  was  it. 
Flowers  were  followed  by  things  more  tangible,  a  pearl-set 
cithern,  a  great  white  hound,  a  gold  girdle,  a  pair  of  doves 
in  a  cage  of  silver  wire,  a  necklet  of  rich  stones  gotten  from 
some  Byzant  mart.  Gorlois  seemed  ready  to  send  her  all 
the  finery  in  Winchester  despite  her  messages  and  her  words 
to  him,  —  u  My  lord,  I  can  suffer  none  of  these  things  from 
you."  Servants  and  slaves  came  down  to  Radamanth's  house 
as  though  they  had  been  sent  from  Sheba,  while  one  of 
Radamanth's  men  went  back  from  Igraine  like  an  echo, 
bearing  back  the  unaccepted  baubles.  It  was  a  patient 
game,  and  rather  foolish. 

These  were  but  small  flutters  in  Gorlois's  sweep  for  the 
sun.  Had  not  Igraine  been  stabbed  in  the  public  gardens  ! 
Gorlois  put  the  incident  to  use.  He  formed  a  bodyguard  of 
certain  of  the  noble  youths  who  were  under  his  patronage, 


130  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

and  warned  Igraine  with  all  reverence  that  he  had  acted  for 
her  sanctity,  and  that  a  dozen  gentlemen  would  follow  near 
her  when  she  walked  abroad,  or  went  to  bath  or  church. 
Even  her  humblest  stroll  in  the  street  began  to  partake  of 
the  nature  of  a  triumphal  progress.  Children  would  gather 
to  her  in  the  gardens  and  throw  flowers  and  laurel  branches 
at  her  feet,  or  she  would  be  followed  by  music  and  some 
sweet  love  ditty  to  the  harp.  A  hundred  quaint  flatterers 
seemed  to  dog  her  from  door  to  door,  till  she  hardly  dared 
to  stir  out  of  Radamanth's  garden. 

Naturally  enough,  her  name  was  soon  the  one  name  in 
Winchester.  The  good  folk  with  their  Celtic  beauty-loving 
souls  spoke  of  her  with  quaint  extravagance  ;  her  skin  was 
like  the  apple-bloom  in  spring,  and  her  lips  like  rich  red 
May ;  her  feet  moved  soft  and  swift  as  sunlight  through 
swaying  branches ;  her  hair  was  a  cloud  of  gold  plucked 
from  the  sky  at  dawn.  She  was  gaped  at  and  pointed  at  in 
the  street  like  a  prodigy.  When  she  went  into  church  on 
Sunday  half  the  folk  turned  to  stare  at  her,  and  a  clear  circle 
was  left  about  her  where  she  sat  in  the  nave.  She  was  for 
the  season  the  city's  cynosure,  its  poem,  its  gossip.  Aphro- 
dite might  have  stepped  out  of  mythology  and  taken  lodging 
at  Radamanth's,  to  judge  by  the  curiosity  displayed  by  the 
people,  and  doubtless  many  a  comfortable  piece  of  business 
came  to  Radamanth  thereby. 

Many  women  would  have  gloried  for  self's  sake  in  such  a 
pageant  of  flattery.  It  was  not  so  with  Igraine.  She  was 
a  woman  who  mingled  much  warmth  of  heart  with  strength 
of  will,  and  fair  measure  of  innate  wisdom  ;  her  feelings  were 
too  staunch  and  vivid  to  be  swayed  or  weakened  by  any 
fresh  circumstance,  however  strange  and  magnificent  it 
might  appear.  Her  love,  once  forged,  could  bend  to  no  new 
craft.  Her  thoughts  were  all  for  Pelleas,  and  any  glory  her 
beauty  received  she  kept  it  in  her  heart  for  him.  Igraine 
was  so  eternally  in  love  that  even  worldly  prides  seemed 
dead  in  her,  and  she  had  not  vanity  enough  to  be  tempted 
by  Gorlois's  great  homage. 


GORLOIS  131 

The  whole  business  troubled  her  not  a  little.  There  was 
a  certain  mockery  in  it  that  hurt  her  heart.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  panted  in  thirst  for  water,  and  some  rude  hand  from 
heaven  had  thrown  down  gold.  Gorlois  had  her  in  measure 
at  his  mercy.  He  seemed  to  take  all  her  rebuffs  with  a 
sublime  stoicism,  and  she  had  no  one  to  whom  she  could 
appeal.  She  wished  to  bide  in  Winchester,  for  the  city 
seemed  to  promise  her  the  best  chance  of  seeing  Pelleas  or 
Uther,  and  of  learning  if  these  twain  were  one. 

One  night  there  was  music  under  her  window.  Flute, 
harp,  and  cithern  with  deep  voices  were  pleading  for  Gorlois 
under  the  stars.  Igraine  listened,  lying  quiet,  and  thinking 
only  of  Pelleas. 


Take  then  my  heart, 

My  soul,  my  shield,  my  sword, 


sang  the  voices  under  the  window.  Igraine  kissed  the  gold 
cross  that  hung  at  her  bosom,  and  longed  till  her  heart 
seemed  fit  to  break  for  yearning.  If  only  the  song  had  come 
from  Pelleas,  how  fair  it  would  have  sounded  in  the  night.  As 
it  was,  the  whole  business  made  her  feel  desperately  weary. 

Gorlois  had  begun  by  holding  somewhat  aloof.  It  was 
part  of  his  purpose  to  work  behind  a  glowing  and  fantastic 
screen,  serving  Igraine  more  at  a  distance,  in  a  spirit  of 
melancholy  that  should  web  him  round  with  a  mystery  that 
was  more  splendid  than  truth.  He  bore  Igraine's  passive 
antagonism  for  a  while  with  a  spirit  of  enforced  fortitude, 
going  cheerfully  by  the  old  and  somewhat  foolish  saying  that 
a  woman's  looks  lie  against  her  heart,  and  that  persistence 
wins  entry  in  the  end.  To  do  credit  to  Gorlois's  self-favour, 
he  never  considered  the  ultimate  shipwreck  of  his  enterprise 
as  possible.  He  had  fame,  gold,  bodily  favour  on  his  side, 
and  what  woman,  he  thought,  could  gainsay  such  a  chorus. 
There  are  some  men  who  never  fail  in  anticipating  success, 
and  Gorlois  possessed  that  quality  of  mind. 

As  the  days  went  by,  and  the  girl  was  still  stone  to  him, 
he  began  to  chafe  and  to  look  for  stauncher  measures.  The 


132  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

gay  gentlemen  who  served  him  suggested  various  expedients  ; 
one,  a  more  passionate  appeal ;  another,  sly  bribery  of 
servants  ;  a  third,  who  was  young  in  years,  hinted  at  humble 
despair  that  might  evoke  pity.  Gorlois  laughed  at  them 
all,  and  swore  he  would  win  the  girl,  hook  or  by  crook,  in 
a  month  or  less,  or  lose  all  the  honour  his  sword  had  won. 
He  was  tired  of  mere  courtesies  that  ran  contrary  to  his 
more  stormy  spirit.  He  had  a  liking  for  insolent  daring,  for 
a  snatch  at  love  as  at  an  enemy's  banner  in  the  full  swing  of 
a  gallop  on  some  bloody  field.  Mere  mild  homage  was  all 
very  well  for  a  season.  Gorlois  loved  mastery,  and  believed 
there  was  no  wine  like  success. 

About  this  time  a  horde  of  heathen  ships  came  from  the 
east,  sailed  past  Vectis,  and  began  to  pour  their  wild  men 
into  the  country  'twixt  Winchester  and  the  sea.  Hamlets 
and  manors  were  burnt,  peasant  folk  driven  to  the  woods, 
the  crops  fired,  the  cattle  slain.  The  noise  of  it  came  into 
Winchester  with  a  rabble  of  frightened  fugitives  who  had 
fled  to  the  city  for  refuge.  Ambrosius  the  king  was  in 
Caerleon,  and  Uther  errant,  so  that  the  chance  fell  to  Gorlois 
of  driving  the  heathen  into  the  sea. 

No  man  could  have  been  more  heartily  glad  of  this 
innovation.  Igraine  should  see  him  swoop  like  a  hawk  in 
his  strength  ;  she  should  hear  how  he  led  men,  and  how  his 
sword  drank  blood.  In  making  war  on  the  heathen  he 
would  boast  himself  before  her  eyes,  and  show  her  the  merit 
of  manhood,  and  the  glory  of  a  strong  arm.  Winchester 
bustled  like  a  camp.  Troops  poured  in  from  Sarum,  and  the 
sound  of  war  went  merrily  through  the  streets.  Folk  boasted 
how  Gorlois  would  harry  the  heathen.  He  rode  out  one 
night  with  picked  men  at  his  back,  and  held  straight  for  the 
coast,  while  Eldol  of  Gloucester,  a  veteran  knight,  marched 
southward  before  dawn  with  five  thousand  footmen.  It  was 
Gorlois's  plan  to  cut  the  heathen  off  from  their  ships,  and 
crush  them  between  his  knights  and  the  spearmen  led  by 
Eudol. 

It  was  such  a  venture  as  Gorlois  loved,  —  keen,  shrill,  and 


COR  LOIS'  133 

full  of  hazards.  Riding  straight  over  hill  and  dale  they  saw 
the  glimmer  of  waves  as  the  sun  rose,  and  knew  they  had 
touched  the  sea.  Gorlois's  scouts  had  located  the  main  mass 
of  the  Jutes  camped  in  a  valley  about  a  nunnery  they  had 
taken,  and  the  British  knights  coming  up  through  the  woods 
saw  smoke  in  the  valley  and  men  moving  like  ants  about  the 
reeking  ruin  of  the  holy  house.  Looking  north  they  saw  a 
beacon  burning  on  a  hill,  —  Eldol's  signal  that  he  had  closed 
the  woods,  north,  east,  and  west,  with  his  footmen,  and  that 
he  waited  only  for  Gorlois  to  sweep  up  and  drive  the  heathen 
on  to  the  hidden  spears. 

Never  was  there  a  finer  light  in  Gorlois's  eyes  than  at 
such  a  season.  He  loved  the  dance  and  noise  of  steel,  the 
plunging  hustle  of  horses  at  the  gallop,  the  grand  rage  of  the 
shout  that  curled  like  the  foam  on  an  ocean  billow.  His 
courage  sang  with  the  wind  as  his  knights  rode  down  over  the 
green  slopes  in  a  great  half-moon  of  steel,  a  moving  barrier 
that  rolled  the  savage  folk  northwards,  and  rent  them  like  a 
harrow  of  iron.  By  the  blackened  walls  of  the  nunnery 
Gorlois  caught  sight  of  a  line  of  mutilated  bodies  tied  to 
posts,  —  dead  nuns,  stripped,  and  still  bleeding.  The  sight 
roused  the  wolf  in  him.  "Kill!  kill!"  were  his  words  as 
they  rode  in  upon  the  skin-clad  horde.  It  was  savage  work, 
bloody  and  merciless.  Eldol's  men  closed  in  on  every 
quarter,  and  the  heathen  were  cut  down  like  corn  in 
summer. 

Very  few  went  back  to  their  ships  that  day.  Scores  lay 
dead  with  their  fair  hair  drabbled  in  the  blood  about  the 
ruins,  and  on  the  quiet  slopes  of  the  dale.  As  they  had 
measured  out  violence  to  the  peasant  folk  and  women,  so  it 
was  meted  to  them  in  turn,  —  vengeance,  piled  up,  great 
measure,  running  over  with  blood.  Some  sixty  maimed 
men  were  taken  alive,  but  mere  death  was  too  mild  for 
Gorlois  when  he  remembered  the  slain  nuns.  He  had 
certain  of  the  captured  burnt  alive,  others  hacked  limb  from 
limb,  the  rest  crucified  near  the  river  for  the  birds  to  feed 
upon.  Then  he  buried  the  nuns,  and  made  a  great  entry 


134  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

into  Winchester,  taking  care  to  ride  past  Igraine's  window 
with  his  white  horse  bloody  to  the  saddle,  and  his  armour 
splashed  as  he  had  come  from  the  field.  She  should  see  his 
manhood,  if  she  would  not  have  his  presents. 

This  single  slaughter,  however,  did  not  end  matters  on 
the  southern  shores.  Bands  of  Saxons  were  forraying  from 
Kent,  where  they  had  established  themselves,  and  Gorlois 
rode  out  again  and  again  to  crush  and  kill.  There  would 
be  battles  in  the  woods,  bloody  tussles  in  the  deep  shadows 
of  Andredswold,  wild  flights  over  moor  and  waste,  triumph 
cries  at  sunset.  Three  times  Gorlois  rode  out  at  the  head 
of  his  knights  from  Winchester ;  three  times  he  came  back 
victorious,  hacked  and  war-stained,  thundered  in  by  the 
people,  past  Radamanth's  house  to  the  church  in  the  market- 
square.  Igraine  sat  at  her  window  and  watched  him  go  by, 
lowering  his  spear  to  her  with  all  his  proud  love  ablaze  on 
his  face.  Had  he  not  driven  the  barbarians  into  the  very 
heel  of  Kent,  and  left  many  a  tall  man  from  over  the  seas 
rotting  in  sun  and  rain  ? 

It  was  customary  year  by  year  in  Winchester  to  hold  a 
water  pageant  on  the  river,  depicting  legendary  and  historic 
things  that  had  passed  within  the  shores  of  Britain.  August 
was  the  pageant  month,  and  in  this  particular  year  the  dis- 
play was  made  more  elaborate  in  order  to  celebrate  the  rout 
of  the  heathen  by  Gorlois,  and  to  please  the  common  folk 
who  had  made  him  their  idol.  The  pageant  was  of  no 
little  splendour.  Great  galleys,  fittingly  decorated,  were 
rowed  down  the  narrow  stream  amid  a  horde  of  smaller  craft, 
each  great  barge  bearing  figures  famed  in  British  legend 
lore.  The  first  barge  portrayed  Brute  the  Trojan  voyaging 
for  Britain;  others,  Locrine's  death  by  the  river  Severn, 
Rudhudibras,  mythical  founder  of  Winchester,  the  reunion 
of  Leyr  and  Cordelia,  Porrex  the  fratricide  done  to  death  by 
damsels.  One  barge,  draped  in  white  and  purple,  moralised 
the  reconciliation  of  Brennius  and  Belenus  at  the  inter- 
cession of  their  mother.  A  great  galley  in  red  and  white 
bore  Joseph  of  Aramathy  and  the  Holy  Grail,  and  a  choir  of 


GORLOIS  135 

angels  who  sang  of  Christ's  blood.  Last  of  all  came  Alban 
the  protomartyr,  pictured  as  he  knelt  to  meet  his  death  by 
the  sword. 

The  day  was  blue  and  quiet,  with  hardly  the  shimmer  of 
a  cloud  over  the  intense  gaze  of  the  sky,  while  banners 
of  rich  cloth  were  hung  over  the  balustrades  of  the  river 
terraces,  and  the  gardens  themselves  were  full  of  gay  folk 
who  kept  carnival,  and  watched  the  boats  go  by.  The 
great  pageant  galleys  had  hardly  passed,  and  the  small  craft 
that  had  kept  the  bank  were  swarming  out  into  mid-stream, 
where  a  great  barge  with  gilded  bulwarks  and  a  carved 
prow  came  sweeping  down  like  a  swan  before  the  wind.  It 
was  driven  by  the  broad  backs  of.  twenty  rowers  clad  in 
scarlet  and  gold.  In  the  stern  sat  Gorlois,  holding  the 
tiller,  with  a  smile  on  his  keen  lips  as  a  quavering  clamour 
went  up  from  the  gardens  and  the  boats  that  lined  the 
shallows. 

By  Radamanth's  house  Gorlois  held  up  a  hand,  and  the 
blades  foamed  as  the  men  backed  water.  The  great  barge 
lost  weigh  and  lay  motionless  on  the  dappled  silver  of  the 
stream.  Slowly  it  was  poled  in  to  the  steps  that  ran  from 
the  water's  edge  to  the  terrace  of  Radamanth's  garden.  A 
light  gangway  was  thrown  ashore,  and  a  purple  carpet 
spread  upon  the  steps,  while  the  men  lined  the  stairway  with 
their  oars  held  spearwise  as  Gorlois  went  up  to  greet 
Igraine. 

Clad  in  white  and  gold,  with  a  rose  over  her  ear,  she  was 
sitting  between  Radamanth  and  Lilith  on  a  bench  at  the 
head  of  the  stairway.  There  was  an  implacable  irresponsive 
look  on  her  face  as  Gorlois  came  up  the  steps  and  stood  in 
front  of  her  like  a  courtier  before  a  queen's  chair.  Rada- 
manth and  the  merchant  folk  present  were  on  their  feet, 
and  uncovered ;  only  Igraine  kept  her  seat  in  the  man's 
presence,  and  looked  him  over  as  though  he  had  been  a 
beggar. 

They  were  left  alone  together  on  the  terrace,  Radamanth 
shepherding  his  merchant  friends  aside  for  the  moment  with 


136  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

the  discreet  desire  to  please  the  count.  Gorlois  stood  by 
the  stairhead  and  told  Igraine  the  reason  of  his  coming,  as 
though  she  had  not  guessed  it  from  the  moment  his  barge 
had  foamed  up  beside  the  steps.  He  told  her  frankly  that 
he  wished  to  speak  to  her  alone,  and  that  his  barge  gave 
her  an  opportunity  of  hearing  him  without  his  having  the 
advantage  of  her  in  solitude,  while  the  noise  of  oars  would 
drown  their  words.  Igraine  listened  to  him  with  a  solemn 
face.  She  began  to  feel  that  she  must  face  her  destiny  and 
give  the  man  the  truth  for  good.  Procrastination  would 
avail  nothing  against  such  a  man  as  Gorlois.  Being  so 
minded,  she  gave  Gorlois  her  hand  and  hardened  herself  to 
satisfy  him  that  day. 

Away  went  the  great  barge  before  the  strong  sweep  of 
the  long  oars.  Igraine  watched  the  water  slide  by  —  foam- 
ing like  a  mill  race  as  the  blades  cut  white  furrows  in  the 
tide.  The  river  gleamed  with  colour  as  innumerable  galleys, 
skiffs,  and  coracles  drifted  in  the  shallows  or  darted  aside  to 
give  passage  to  Gorlois's  barge.  Fair  stone  houses,  gardened 
round  with  green,  slid  back  on  either  side.  They  passed 
the  spectacular  galleys  one  by  one,  and  the  wooden  wharfs 
packed  with  the  mean  folk  of  the  city,  and  foaming  on 
under  the  great  water-gate,  drew  southward  into  the  open 
country  and  the  fields. 

Igraine  looked  at  Gorlois,  and  found  his  face  impenetra- 
ble with  thought.  A  fillet  of  gold  bound  his  hair,  and  he 
was  wearing  his  great  sword,  and  an  enamelled  belt  over  his 
rich  tunic.  The  cushions  of  the  barge  had  been  sprinkled 
with  perfumes,  and  the  floor  covered  ankle  deep  with 
flowers.  Igraine  groaned  in  spirit,  and  read  the  old  ex- 
travagance that  had  persecuted  her  so  long,  and  made  a 
mockery  of  her  love  for  Pelleas. 

Gentle  meads  lapped  greenly  to  the  willows,  giving 
place  anon  to  woods  that  seemed  to  stride  down  and  snatch 
the  river  for  a  silver  girdle.  The  festival  folk  and  their 

D 

skiffs  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  yet  Gorlois's  barge  ran 
on,  to  plunge  into  emerald  shadows,  tunnels  whose  floors 


GORLOIS  137 

seemed  of  the  blackest  crystal  webbed  with  nets  of  green 
and  blue,  whose  vaultings  were  the  dense  groinings  of  the 
trees.  Not  a  wind  stirred.  The  great  curving  galleries 
in  the  woods  were  dark  and  mysterious,  the  water  like 
glistening  basalt,  the  trees  dreaming  over  their  own  images 
in  an  ecstasy  of  silence.  The  foam  from  the  oars  was  very 
white,  and  the  moist  swish  of  the  blades  made  the  silence 
more  solemn  by  contrast,  while  the  water  seemed  to  catch 
a  golden  flicker  from  the  flanks  of  the  barge. 

Igraine  knew  well  enough  what  was  in  the  man's  heart 
as  he  sat  handling  the  tiller,  and  watching  her  with,  his 
restless  eyes.  She  was  quite  cold  and  undisturbed  in  spite 
of  her  being  at  his  mercy,  and  the  consciousness  that  in  her 
heart  she  did  not  trust  him  vastly.  Gorlois  had  spoken 
only  of  the  town,  and  they  were  running  on  under  dense 
foliage  into  the  forest  solitudes  that  edged  the  river.  Yet 
Igraine  had  faith  in  her  own  wit,  and  believed  herself  a 
match  for  Gorlois,  or  any  man,  for  that  matter,  save  Pelleas. 
Gorlois  passed  the  time  by  telling  her  of  his  battles  in 
Andredswold,  how  he  had  driven  the  heathen  into  Thanet, 
and  freed  Andred's  town  from  leaguer.  Igraine  began  to 
wonder  how  long  it  would  be  before  he  would  turn  to 
matters  nearer  to  his  heart.  She  had  marshalled  up  her 
courage  for  the  argument,  and  this  waiting  under  arms  for 
the  bugle-call  did  not  please  her. 

The  day  had  already  slipped  into  evening,  for  the  water 
pageant  was  ordered  late,  so  that  it  might  merge  into  a 
lantern  frolic  on  the  river  after  dusk.  Igraine,  seeing  how 
the  light  lapsed,  told  Gorlois  to  have  the  barge  turned  for 
Winchester.  She  had  hardly  spoken  when  the  boat  ran 
out  from  the  trees  into  open  water.  In  the  west  the  sky 
was  already  aflame,  ridged  tier  above  tier  with  burning 
clouds,  while  the  blaze  fainted  zenithwards  into  gold  and 
azure.  A  queer  cry  as  from  a  man  weary  of  torture  came 
down  from  the  west.  On  a  low  hill  near  the  river,  bleak 
against  the  sky,  stood  a  black  concourse  of  beams  set  up- 
right in  the  ground,  looking  like  the  charred  pillars  of  a 


138  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

burnt  house.  They  were  crosses,  and  the  bodies  of  men 
crucified. 

Gorlois  pointed  to  them  with  the  evening  glow  on  his 
face,  and  taking  a  horn  that  hung  at  his  belt,  blew  a  loud 
call  thereon.  At  the  sound  a  vulture  rose  from  a  cross- 
beam, and  went  flapping  heavenwards  —  a  black  blot  against 
the  scarlet  frieze  of  the  west.  Others  followed,  like  evil 
things  driven  from  their  food.  Again  the  cry,  the  wail 
from  one  who  had  hung  torn  and  wracked  in  the  parching 
sun,  came  down  from  the  darkening  hill. 

Igraine  shuddered  and  felt  cold  at  the  sound,  and  watched 
the  figures  against  the  sky  with  a  kind  of  awe. 

"  Who  are  these  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Dogs  from  over  the  sea." 

"  Some  are  still  alive." 

"  These  pirates  are  hard  ;  they  die  slowly,  despite  beak 
and  claw.  Such  be  the  death  of  all  who  burn  holy  houses 
and  homes,  and  put  women  and  children  to  the  sword." 

"  Take  them  down,  or  let  them  be  killed  outright." 

"  Never." 

"  At  my  prayer." 

"  What  I  have  done,  I  have  done." 

"  Cruelly." 

"  Cruelly,  madame  !  You  should  have  seen  twenty  dead 
nuns  tied  to  stakes  as  I  have  seen,  and  you  would  gloat  and 
be  glad  as  I  am.  By  God,  little  mercy  had  this  offal  at  my 
hands  in  the  glades  of  Andredswold.  I  burnt,  and  crucified, 
and  tore  with  horses.  Mere  steel  is  too  good  for  such  as  these." 

"  My  lord  !  " 

"  What  is  hate  unless  it  is  hate  ?  I  can  never  brook  an 
enemy  to  Britain." 

Igraine  had  sudden  insight  into  the  core  of  Gorlois's  nature. 
She  understood,  in  a  vague,  swift  way,  what  primaeval  in- 
stincts were  hid  in  him  ready  at  the  beck  of  baser  feelings 
such  as  jealousy  or  smitten  pride.  Woman-like,  she  recoiled 
from  a  man  whose  strength  was  so  inflexible  that  it  owned 
no  pity  or  leavening  kindness  where  malice  or  anger  was 


GORLOIS  139 

concerned.  She  loved  strength,  and  the  natural  wrath  of  a 
man,  but  she  had  no  touch  of  the  Semiramis  about  her,  and 
her  heart  could  not  echo  Gorlois's  wolf-like  cry. 

The  rowers  had  turned  the  barge,  and  they  were  soon 
back  again  under  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  It  was  dim  and 
ghostly  with  the  onrush  of  night,  while  a  faint  fire  flickered 
through  the  trees  from  the  west  and  touched  the  sullen 
water  with  a  reddish  flame.  Gorlois's  face  was  in  the  shadow. 
He  was  leaning  over  the  tiller  towards  Igraine,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  burn  out  upon  her  face  and  to  make  her  heart 
beat  faster.  She  sat  as  much  away  from  him  as  the  gunwale 
suffered,  and  looked  ahead  over  the  misty  river,  or  up  into 
the  dense,  black  bosoms  of  the  trees. 

The  foamy  rush  of  the  oars  and  the  grind  of  the  looms 
in  the  rowlocks  half  drowned  Gorlois's  words  as  he  spoke  to 
her. 

"  Igraine." 

"  My  lord." 

"  You  have  read  me  to  the  heart." 

Igraine  turned  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  Now 
that  the  brunt  had  come,  she  was  strong  and  ready  to  tell 
the  man  the  truth,  though  it  might  be  bleak  and  bitter  to 
his  pride.  Gorlois  was  very  near  her,  and  she  could  see  his 
white  teeth  between  his  lips,  and  the  glint  of  his  eyes  as  he 
leant  towards  her  in  the  shadows. 

"  Are  you  ambitious,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"  Not  even  a  little  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  have  no  more  ambition  in  me  than  one  of 
those  dead  men  hanging  athwart  the  sunset." 

"You  are  a  queer  woman." 

"  Pardon,  I  have  a  conscience." 

Gorlois  bit  his  lip,  stared  in  her  face,  and  set  a  hand  upon 
her  wrist. 

"  You  can  never  shirk  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  never  shirk  the  truth." 

"  Come  now,  give  me  the  word." 


140  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  My  lord,  may  I  save  you  pain  in  the  telling  of  it !  You 
can  never  come  near  my  heart." 

44  Woman,  never  be  so  sure." 

Gorlois  drew  back,  and  said  never  another  word.  Igraine 
watched  him  furtively  as  his  keen  profile  hung  near  her  in 
the  dusk  clear  as  marble.  Now  and  again  his  eyes  gleamed 
out  upon  her  and  made  her  fear  the  moment,  while  the  oars 
swung  out  over  the  smiling  stream,  and  the  black  woods 
started  by  like  night. 

Soon  the  lights  of  Winchester  showed  up  against  the 
northern  sky,  and  far  ahead  over  a  straight  stretch  of  water 
they  could  see  the  lanterns  and  torches  of  the  folk  who  kept 
festival.  A  golden  mist  and  the  noise  of  music  came  down 
to  them,  as  they  surged  under  the  great  water-gate  and  ran 
on  through  the  city  amid  a  glimmering  web  of  lights  and 
laughter.  Soon  the  barge  found  the  shallows  under  white 
walls,  and  Igraine  was  standing  on  the  steps  leading  to 
Radamanth's  garden,  with  a  starry  sky  sweeping  like  a 
wheel  above  the  world. 

Gorlois  went  slowly  from  her  down  the  steps,  with  a 
face  that  was  dark  and  brooding.  Torchlight  glimmered 
on  the  fillet  of  gold  about  his  hair,  on  the  splendid  setting 
of  his  baldric,  and  the  scabbard  of  his  sword.  At  the 
water's  edge  he  lifted  up  his  face  to  her  out  of  the  night. 

"  It  shall  be  life  or  death,"  he  said. 

Then  he  was  swept  away  with  a  red  flare  of  torches  over 
the  river,  and  Igraine  went  solemn-eyed  to  bed. 


NOT  a  word  of  Uther  yet,  no  sound  of  his  name  in 
Winchester,  though  Igraine  lived  on  in  Radamanth's  house, 
and  hoped  for  light  in  the  dark. 

Gorlois  had  had  the  truth,  and  she  wondered  what  would 
come  of  it.     Lulled  by  an  ingenuous   reasoning  into  the 


GORLOIS  141 

belief  that  she  would  be  free  of  the  man,  she  began  to  breathe 
again  and  to  take  liberty  in  her  hand.  She  did  not  think 
Gorlois  could  plague  her  longer  after  the  blunt  answer  she 
had  given  him.  His  pride  would  drag  him  aside,  make 
further  homage  impossible,  and  there  the  matter  would  end. 

If  Igraine  believed  this,  then  she  was  in  very  gross  error. 
Many  men  never  show  their  true  fibre  till  they  are  given 
the  blunt  lie,  and  Gorlois  was  never  more  himself  than  when 
baffled.  There  was  much  of  the  hawk  about  him,  and 
Igraine  had  underrated  his  pride  if  she  expected  it  to  take 
league  with  her  against  its  kinsman  passion.  Her  measure 
only  uncovered  the  darker  side  of  the  man's  nature,  and 
sounded  the  doom  of  a  lighter,  gayer  chivalry.  Gorlois's 
pride  and  self-love  never  dragged  in  the  wind,  but  held  him 
taut  to  the  storm,  as  though  determined  to  weather  all  the 
perversities  of  which  a  woman's  heart  is  capable.  In  truth, 
Igraine  had  done  the  very  thing  least  likely  to  free  her  from 
the  man's  thought ;  she  had  taunted  his  passion  and  thrown 
down  a  challenge  to  his  pride. 

Gorlois  kept  his  own  counsel,  and  frowned  down  the 
mischievous  curiousness  of  his  friends  when  they  laughed 
at  him  and  asked  how  the  girl  framed  for  a  wife.  He  struck 
Brastias  his  squire  to  the  ground  for  daring  to  jest  sympa- 
thetically on  the  subject.  Those  who  went  about  his  house 
and  hunted  and  diced  with  him  soon  found  that  he  was  in 
no  temper  for  light  raillery  or  the  sly  privileges  of  an  inti- 
mate tongue.  The  fabric  of  a  mere  nice  romance  had 
stiffened  into  sterner,  darker  proportions.  There  was  the 
look  of  a  dry  desire  in  the  man's  eyes,  a  lean  hungry  silence 
about  him  that  made  his  men  whisper.  Some  of  them  had 
seen  Gorlois  when  he  hunted  down  the  heathen.  They 
knew  his  temper,  and  the  cast  of  his  features  when  there 
was  some  lust  of  enterprise  in  his  heart. 

About  that  time  a  knight  came  from  Wales  thrusting  a 
woman's  beauty  upon  every  man  with  the  point  of  his  spear. 
As  had  been  his  custom  elsewhere,  he  set  up  a  green  pavilion 
outside  the  walls,  and  daily  rode  out  armed  to  the  sound  of 


142  UTHER  AND  /GRAINS 

a  trumpet  to  declare  a  certain  Amoret  of  Caerleon  the 
fairest  gentlewoman  in  Christendom.  He  was  a  big  man, 
red  and  burly,  and  had  overthrown  every  like  fanatic  for 
love's  sake  on  this  particular  adventure.  Gorlois  heard  of 
the  fellow  with  no  little  satisfaction.  Every  finger  of  him 
itched  to  spill  blood,  and  he  took  the  deed  on  him,  vowing 
it  should  be  the  last  peace-offering  to  Igraine. 

Arming  one  morning,  he  rode  down  and  fought  the 
Green  Knight  in  his  meadow  outside  the  walls.  It  took 
them  an  hour  to  settle  the  matter.  At  the  end  thereof  the 
errant  from  Wales  was  lying  impotent  and  bloody  in  his 
tent,  and  the  name  of  Amoret  aped  the  ineffectual  moon. 
Afterwards  Gorlois  rode  into  the  town,  war-stained  as  he 
was,  found  Igraine  at  her  window,  and  presented  her  the 
Green  Knight's  token  on  the  point  of  his  spear. 

It  was  a  woman's  sleeve  in  green  silk,  and  edged  with 
pearls.  Igraine  saw  a  crowd  of  upturned  faces  about  the 
man  on  the  white  horse.  His  bright  arms  seemed  to  burn 
in  upon  her,  and  to  light  a  sudden  impatience  in  her  heart. 
She  took  the  green  sleeve  from  the  spear,  and  looking  Gorlois 
full  in  the  face,  in  reckless  mood  she  threw  the  thing  down 
under  his  horse's  hoofs. 

There  was  a  great  hush  all  through  the  street  at  the  deed, 
and  Gorlois  started  red  as  a  man  struck  across  the  face  with 
a  whip.  His  eyes  seemed  to  grow  large,  like  the  eyes  of  an 
angry  dog.  Never  had  folk  seen  him  look  so  black.  He 
stared  up  a  moment  at  Igraine,  shook  his  spear,  and  tram- 
pling the  green  sleeve  under  the  hoofs  of  his  horse,  rode  away 
without  a  word  through  the  glum  and  gaping  crowd. 

Igraine  had  thrown  down  the  glove  with  a  vengeance. 
It  was  a  mad  enough  method  of  beating  off"  the  pride  of 
a  man  such  as  Gorlois,  whose  temper  %grew  with  the  blows 
given,  and  who  knew  no  moderation  in  love  or  in  hate. 
Gorlois  had  ridden  home  through  the  town  that  day  to  have 
his  wounds  dressed,  and  to  spend  half  the  night  in  a  fury  of 
cursing.  Yet  for  all  his  bitterness  he  had  the  power  of 
level  thought,  and  of  taking  ground  for  the  future.  He 


GORLOIS  143 

would  read  this  woman  a  lesson ;  that  much  he  swore  on 
the  cross  of  his  sword ;  and  the  early  morning  saw  him 
again  at  Radamanth's,  strenuous  to  speak  his  mind. 

The  goldsmith  happened  to  know  that  Igraine  was  alone 
in  the  garden.  Without  noise  or  ceremony  he  sent  Gorlois 
in  to  her,  locked  the  door  on  them  both,  and  went  to  watch 
from  a  narrow  window  on  the  stairs.  He  swore  that  Gorlois 
should  have  his  own  way,  and  not  go  balked  for  a  woman's 
whim. 

Igraine  was  sitting  sewing  in  the  arbour  of  laurels  with 
the  little  gold  cross  hanging  down  over  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  A  grass  walk  led  to  the  arbour  between  beds  of 
flowers.  As  she  sat  stitching  she  heard  the  sound  of  feet 
in  the  grass,  and  saw  a  shadow  slanting  across  the  entry. 
She  expected  Lilith,  but  looking  up,  found  Gorlois. 

He  was  white  from  his  wounds  of  yesterday  and  the 
blood  he  had  lost  by  the  Green  Knight's  sword.  His  left 
arm  lay  in  a  sling  of  red  silk.  Igraine  noted  in  her  sudden 
half-fear  how  his  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  that  his  beard 
looked  coal-black  below  his  bloodless  cheeks.  There  was 
something  in  his  face  too  that  made  Igraine  cautious. 

She  rose  and  folded  her  embroidery  in  the  most  unper- 
turbed and  quiet  fashion,  though  she  was  thinking  hard  all 
the  same.  Gorlois  watched  her,  and  held  back  for  her  to 
speak,  with  a  hollow  fire  creeping  into  his  eyes,  for  the 
girl's  passionless  mood  chafed  him.  He  had  no  gentleness 
towards  her  for  the  moment ;  such  love  as  he  knew  had 
been  blown  into  a  red  beacon  by  starved  and  covetous  desire. 

"  A  word  with  you,"  he  said. 

The  speech  was  rough  and  pertinent,  showing  the  trend 
of  the  man's  purpose.  He  had  abandoned  superficialities. 
Igraine,  gathering  up  her  silks,  turned  and  faced  him  with 
the  frankness  of  a  full  moon.  Gorlois  saw  her  lips  tighten, 
and  there  was  a  temper  swimming  in  her  eyes  that  promised 
abundant  spirit  and  no  shirking.  If  he  had  launched  out 
to  rouse  her  from  passive  antagonism,  he  could  not  have 
chosen  a  better  method. 


144  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Igraine  made  a  step  towards  the  house,  but  two  strides 
put  Gorlois  in  her  path. 

"  Make  way  —  " 

"  Not  a  foot  till  you  have  the  truth  out  of  me." 

"  Have  a  care,  —  I  will  be  stormed  at  by  no  man." 

u  Woman,  look  at  me." 

Igraine  was  looking  at  him  with  all  the  temper  she 
could  summon.  If  Gorlois  thought  to  ride  straight*  over 
her  courage,  he  was  enormously  mistaken.  She  would 
match  him  for  all  his  hectoring. 

"  If  you  are  not  a  fool,"  she  said,  "  you  will  end  this 
nonsense,  and  go." 

"Am  I  a  scullion  ?" 

"You  should  know,  my  lord." 

"  I  have  not  bled  for  nothing." 

"As  you  will." 

"  What  have  .you  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

Igraine  lost  all  patience,  tossed  her  embroidery  aside,  and 
simply  flashed  out  at  him  with  all  her  soul. 

"  Say !  "  she  said ;  "  I  have  somewhat  to  say,  and  that 
bitter ;  listen  if  you  will.  You,  Gorlois  of  Cornwall,  who 
bade  you  make  my  name  a  byword  in  Winchester  ?  Listen 
to  me,  —  hear  the  truth,  and  profit — you  who  pestered  me 
with  mad  tricks  till  I  hated  it  all  and  held  it  insolence. 
Who  asked  you  to  make  me  gossip  for  a  city,  did  I  ?  Who 
took  your  presents  ?  Who  told  you  the  truth  ?  Who 
threw  your  token  under  the  hoofs  of  your  horse  to  shame 
you  ?  I  have  mocked  you  enough,  now  leave  me  in  peace, 
or  rue  it." 

"  By  God,  madame  —  " 

"  Don't  echo  me.  Go,  get  out  of  my  sight ;  I  hate 
you  !  " 

Gorlois  flushed  to  the  temples  in  this  wind  of  passion. 
The  girl  looked  splendid  to  him  in  her  great  anger,  her 
head  thrown  back  and  her  eyes  steady  on  him  as  stars. 
The  scorn  of  her  beauty  leapt  over  him  like  crimson  light, 
and  he  was  more  a  sensation  than  a  man.  He  had  a  great 


;A    SUDDEN    MADNESS    WHIRLED   GORLOIS    AWAY 


GORLOIS  145 

thirst  in  him  to  grip  her  with  his  hands,  to  bend  her  straight 
body  as  he  would  bend  a  bow,  to  strangle  up  the  scorn  in 
her  throat  with  his  own  breath.  He  went  near  her,  stoop- 
ing and  staring  in  her  face. 

"Igraine." 

"  Mark  my  words." 

"  You  golden  shrew,  you  temptation  of  tempers  —  " 

"Hold  off—  " 

"  By  God  !   I'll  tame  you,  don't  doubt  me." 

Igraine,  very  watchful,  slipped  past  him  suddenly  like 
light,  and  walked  for  the  house  with  a  sweeping  air  that  bade 
him  keep  his  distance.  Coming  to  the  door  of  the  house, 
she  tried  it  but  found  the  lock  shot.  The  red  badge  of  a 
new  anger  showed  upon  either  cheek.  She  turned  on 
Gorlois ;  her  eyes  blazed  out  at  him. 

"  A  pretty  trick  !  " 

u  What  now,  madame  ?  " 

"  You  had  this  door  locked." 

"  Never." 

"  You  lie  in  your  throat." 

"  Radamanth  —  " 

"  Open  it." 

"  I  have  no  key." 

Igraine's  figure  seemed  to  dilate  and  grow  taller,  and 
her  eyes  shone  well-nigh  as  bright  in  colour  as  her  hair. 

"  Obey  me." 

"  Not  if  I  had  the  key." 

"  Obey  me." 

"  I  will  be  master  before  the  sun  is  at  noon." 

«  You  dog  !  " 

A  sudden  madness  whirled  Gorlois  away.  He  went  red 
from  the  neck,  clutched  at  Igraine's  wrist  and  held  it.  For 
a  moment  they  stood  rigid.  The  girl  could  not  shake  him 
off  although  he  had  but  one  hand  to  hold  her.  His  breath  was 
hot  upon  her  face  as  he  pressed  her  back  against  the  wall, 
and  held  her  there  till  his  lips  touched  her  neck.  Igraine, 
breathing  fast  and  straining  from  him  with  all  her  strength, 


146  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

set  a  hand  on  his  face  and  thrust  him  away.  She  twisted 
her  wrist  free,  and  slipped  from  between  him  and  the  wall. 
Then  the  door  opened,  and  Radamanth  stood  by  them. 

Igraine  slipped  away  with  a  white  face,  and  running 
above  to  her  chamber  threw  herself  down  on  the  bed,  and 
cried  for  Pelleas.  She  heard  Gorlois  stride  through  the 
house,  heard  the  gate  crash  as  he  went  out  into  the  street. 
Shame  and  loneliness  were  on  her  like  despair,  and  she  was 
weak  and  shaken  after  her  anger,  and  very  hungry  for  love 
and  comfort.  The  world  seemed  a  dull  blank  about  her, 
cold,  irresponsive,  and  grey  as  a  November  evening.  Every 
hand  seemed  against  her.  Even  Radamanth,  the  man  of 
serious  years,  had  turned  the  key  upon  her,  more  kind  to 
Gorlois  than  herself.  Her  thoughts  were  very  bitter  as  she 
lay  and  brooded  over  it  all. 

Presently  she  heard  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs. 
Darting  to  the  door,  she  bolted  it,  and  went  back  to  the  bed, 
while  a  hand  rapped  out  a  somewhat  diffident  summons, 
and  Radamanth's  voice  came  in  to  her. 

"  My  dear  niece,"  it  said. 

Igraine  made  no  answer. 

"  My  dear  niece,  let  me  have  a  word  with  you." 

Still  no  answer.  Radamanth  tried  the  door  and  found  it 
fastened. 

a  Gorlois  is  gone,"  he  said. 

Igraine  remained  obdurate,  with  face  drawn  and  sullen- 
eyed.  She  heard  him  shuffle  down  the  stairs  again,  go  into 
his  parlour,  and  shut  the  door  very  gently,  like  a  man  who 
is  ashamed.  Then  all  was  quiet  save  for  casual  footsteps 
in  the  street,  and  the  garrulous  chatter  of  a  starling  on  the 
tiles. 

Noon  had  come  and  gone  a  long  while,  and  still  Igraine 
lay  in  her  room  and  moped.  She  felt  sore  and  grieved  to 
the  heart,  all  her  sanguine  courage  was  at  low  ebb.  Win- 
chester seemed  a  prison-house  where  she  was  shut  up  with 
Gorlois.  The  man's  greed  and  power  of  soul  seemed  to 
stare  upon  her  till  white  honour  folded  its  hands  over  its 


GORLOIS  147 

breast  and  turned  to  flee.  Oh  for  Pelleas  and  the  brave  look 
of  those  honest  eyes,  the  staunch  touch  of  those  great 
hands.  He  seemed  to  stand  up  above  the  world,  above  the 
selfishness,  the  lust,  the  violence,  like  a  pine  on  some  lonely 
hill.  She  could  trust,  she  could  believe.  To  find  him 
would  give  her  peace. 

As  she  lay  there  that  noontide  a  new  purpose  came  to 
her,  and  lighted  up  hope.  It  was  frail  and  flickering 
enough,  but  still,  it  burned.  She  would  leave  Radamanth's 
house  and  go  afoot  into  the  world  to  find  a  shadow.  Any- 
thing was  better  than  lying  cooped  in  the  place  for  dread  of 
Gorlois.  She  had  long  contemplated  such  a  measure,  and 
that  morning  in  Radamanth's  garden  gave  her  decision  and 
made  her  strong. 

She  rose  up  from  the  bed  and  hunted  out  her  old 
Avangel  habit  from  a  cupboard  in  the  wall.  Then  she  set 
to  to  dofF  the  rich  stuffs  Radamanth  had  given  her,  the 
embroidered  tunic,  the  coloured  leather  shoes,  the  goodly 
enamelled  girdle.  In  their  stead  she  stood  again  in  the  old 
grey  gown,  hood,  and  sandals,  with  a  little  thrill  of  delicious 
recollection.  It  was  like  stepping  back  into  the  dream  of  an 
enchanted  past. 

She  had  hardly  ended  the  transformation  when  there 
came  a  shy  tap  at  her  door,  and  a  mild  voice  calling  to  her 
from  the  landing.  It  was  the  girl  Lilith.  Igraine  felt  a 
sudden  warmth  at  her  heart  as  she  let  her  in  and  barred  the 
door  again.  Lilith  stood  and  stared  at  her,  her  great  brown 
eyes  wide  with  astonishment. 

"  Why  this  old  dress,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,  dear." 

"  And  you  have  been  crying,  for  your  eyes  are  red." 

Igraine  took  the  soft-voiced  little  woman  to  the  window- 
seat  and  told  her  sadly  enough  all  the  doings  of  the  morning. 
Even  Lilith  looked  ashamed  and  showed  her  anger  openly. 
Radamanth  had  confessed  nothing  of  what  had  passed  in 
the  garden. 

"  I  never  loved  my   father  less  before,"  she  said.      "  I 


148  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

should  never  have  thought  this  mean  trick  of  him.  I  am 
ashamed,  Igraine." 

"  Never  trouble,  dear,  you  are  my  joy  in  Winchester." 

"  And  why  this  old  nun's  habit  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you,  child." 

Lilith  clutched  at  her  with  both  hands,  her  face  suddenly 
white  and  almost  piteous. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Igraine  !  " 

"  I  must,  dear." 

"  Forgive  —  " 

"  It  is  not  that  alone.  I  cannot  rest  here  longer.  Gorlois 
and  the  city  have  crushed  the  heart  out  of  me." 

Lilith  lifted  up  her  child's  face  to  her,  and  then  began  to 
sob  unrestrained  on  Igraine's  bosom. 

"  It  seems  cruel,"  she  whimpered. 

"  No,  no,  it  is  best  for  me  after  all." 

"  But  where  will  you  go,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows,  dear.  I  cannot  rest  here  longer  after 
this  morning.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  stifle." 

"  Don't  go,  Igraine." 

"  Hush,  dear,  don't  weaken  me.    I  am  hard  put  as  it  is." 

They  were  both  weeping  now.  Lilith's  slim  body 
shook  as  she  lifted  up  her  face  to  Igraine's,  and  looked  at 
her  through  her  tears.  She  had  learnt  to  love  Igraine,  and 
jealousy  of  her  tall  and  splendid  kinswoman  had  had  no 
place  in  her  heart.  Lilith  possessed  to  perfection  the  power 
of  sympathy,  and  being  a  simple  little  soul  who  lived  wholly 
for  the  present,  she  perhaps  felt  the  more  for  that  very 
reason.  She  could  not  say  evil  enough  of  Gorlois,  nor  put 
too  much  kindness  into  her  kisses  as  she  sat  with  her  head 
on  Igraine's  shoulder. 

"You  cannot  go  out  alone  in  the  world,"  she  said 
presently. 

Igraine  was  silent. 

"  I  know  father  would  never  forgive  himself." 

"  There  are  convents,  child.  They  would  guard  and  give 
me  harbour  for  a  time." 


GORLOIS  149 

"A  convent — but  you  hate  the  life." 
"  If  I  could  only  hear  of  Uther,  I  would  —  " 
"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.      But  will  you  go,  Igraine  ?  " 
u  My  mind  is  made  up  ;  nothing  can  change  it." 
"  Then  let  me  come  with  you." 

Igraine  kissed  her,  but  shook  her  head  at  the  suggestion. 
u  I  love  you  for  the  wish,  dear,  but  I  could  never  drag 
you  into  my  own  troubles,  and  it  would  be  very  wrong  to 
Radamanth." 

That  afternoon  they  had  many  words  together  in 
Igraine's  room,  and  dusk  caught  them  still  talking.  Igraine 
had  made  Lilith  promise  that  Radamanth  should  know 
nothing  of  her  flight  till  the  following  morning.  Lilith 
proved  a  little  obstinate  at  first,  but  yielded  in  the  end  for 
fear  of  grieving  Igraine.  With  the  dusk  she  crept  down- 
stairs and  brought  up  food.  Igraine  made  a  meal,  while 
Lilith,  with  her  tears  still  falling,  put  up  food  and  a  few 
trifles  into  a  bundle,  slipping  in  all  the  little  store  of  money 
she  had.  Then  she  ran  softly  downstairs  to  see  if  the  way 
were  clear.  Radamanth  had  gone  to  supper  with  a  merchant 
friend,  and  the  house  seemed  quiet  and  very  lonely.  In  the 
passage-way  the  two  girls  took  leave  of  each  other,  Lilith 
clinging  to  Igraine  for  a  moment  with  all  her  heart.  With 
sad  eyes  Igraine  left  her,  and  went  out  into  the  night. 


VI 

IGRAINE  found  lodging  that  night  in  the  great  abbey  cf  St. 
Helena  that  Pelleas  had  spoken  of  on  their  ride  from  the 
island  manor.  Posing  to  the  portress  as  one  who  had 
wandered  long  after  her  escape  from  Avangel,  she  was  taken 
to  the  refectory,  where  supper  was  being  spread  by  the 
juniors.  The  women  of  the  place  gathered  round  her,  and 
Igraine  inquired  with  some  qualms  for  any  chance  news  of 
Malt,  Claudia,  and  the  rest,  tut  getting  nothing  she  felt 


150  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

more  confident.  She  told  them  her  name  was  Meliboea,  and 
she  recounted  at  length  the  burning  of  Avangel  and  her 
subsequent  wanderings,  carefully  purging  the  tale  of  all  that 
might  seem  strange  to  their  virgin  ears,  or  set  their  tongues 
a-clacking.  The  women  were  very  kind  to  her,  partly  for 
her  own  sake,  and  partly  for  the  interesting  gossip  she  had 
brought  them. 

At  supper  she  sat  next  a  young  and  merry  nun  who 
shared  her  misericords  with  her.  The  good  women  of  the 
place  were  suffered  to  talk  between  vespers  and  complines, 
and  Igraine,  sly  at  heart,  edged  the  talk  to  a  tone  for  which 
she  thirsted,  and  began  to  speak  to  her  neighbours  of  Gratia, 
Abbess  of  Avangel. 

"  Did  any  of  you  know  her  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Only  by  fame,"  said  a  fat  nun  opposite  Igraine. 

"  I  have  heard  she  was  near  of  kin  to  the  King,"  said 
another,  who  drooped  her  lids  in  very  modest  fashion. 

Igraine  started  in  thought. 

"  Aurelius  ?  "  she  said. 

The  nun  nodded. 

"  How  were  they  related  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  Gratia  was  his  aunt." 

"  And  aunt  to  Uther  also  ? " 

"  Of  course,  seeing  they  are  brothers." 

Igraine  looked  at  her  wooden  platter,  and  pressed  the 
little  gold  cross  to  her  bosom  with  her  hand.  And  now  a 
strange  thing  happened.  The  old  nun  opposite  Igraine, 
who  was  the  Mistress  of  the  Novices,  brought  out  news 
that  she  had  heard  in  the  Abbess's  parlour  that  very 
morning. 

"  Uther  has  been  seen  again,"  she  said. 

«  Uther  ?  " 

The  word  snapped  out  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow,  and 
brought  the  nuns'  eyes  on  Igraine  across  the  table. 

"  The  man  comes  and  goes  like  a  shadow.  He  is  ever 
riding  alone  to  do  some  great  deed  against  the  beasts,  or 
against  the  heathen.  A  great  soul  is  Uther." 


GORLOIS  151 

Here  were  tidings  dropped  like  dew  out  of  heaven  at  the 
very  hour  she  stood  in  need  of  them.  Igraine  felt  the  mist 
lighten  appreciably  in  her  brain.  She  popped  an  olive  into 
her  mouth  and  spoke  almost  carelessly. 

"  Where  is  Uther  ?  " 

11  At  Sarum  town.  He  rode,  they  say,  to  the  great  camp 
there  looking  like  a  ghost,  or  as  though  he  had  been  playing 
Simeon  on  a  pillar." 

Igraine  merely  nodded. 

u  Uther  always  looks  a  serious  soul.  Have  you  ever  seen 
him,  sister  ?  " 

"  Never.     A  dark  man  ?  " 

"  With  a  face  like  a  sun  and  a  thunder-cloud  rolled  into 
one." 

41  A  good  man  !  " 

"  So  they  say  ;  he  has  a  clean  look." 

A  little  bell  began  to  sound  to  call  them  away  to 
complines.  Igraine  went  with  the  rest  into  the  solemn 
chapel,  and  let  the  chant  sweep  into  her  soul,  and  the  prayers 
take  her  heart  to  heaven.  Incense  floated  down,  colours 
shone  and  glimmered  on  the  walls,  the  dim  lamps  shivered 
like  stars  under  the  roof.  Igraine  felt  her  hollow  heart 
warm  as  a  rose  in  the  full  blaze  of  a  golden  noon.  She  said 
her  prayers  very  fervently  that  night,  for  love  was  awake  in 
her  and  glad  of  her  new-blossomed  hope.  She  would  go  to 
the  great  camp  at  Sarum  and  see  this  Uther  for  herself. 

She  had  little  comradeship  with  sleep  in  the  great  dormi- 
tory that  night.  When  the  matins  bell  rang  she  was  up 
and  ready  for  her  flight  like  a  young  lark  in  the  day.  After 
chapel  she  begged  a  pittance  from  the  cellaress  and  stowed 
it  with  her  bundle  in  the  little  wallet  Lilith  had  given  her, 
excusing  her  early  going  on  the  plea  that  she  had  far  to 
walk  that  day.  She  set  out  briskly  from  the  grey  shadows 
of  the  abbey.  The  place  lay  quite  close  by  the  western 
gate,  so  that  she  was  soon  beyond  the  walls  and  in  the  fields 
and  orchards  where  all  was  goldly  quiet  at  that  early  hour. 

Winchester  stood  like  a  prison-house,  void  and  fooled,  in 


152  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

the  east.  Igraine  turned  and  looked  down  at  it  awhile 
huddled  in  its  great  girdle  of  stone,  a  medley  of  towers, 
roofs,  and  mist-wrapped  trees.  She  shook  her  fist  at  it  with 
a  noiseless  little  laugh  when  she  thought  of  Gorlois.  Further 
yet  to  the  east  she  could  see  the  blue  pine-smirched  ridge 
where  Pelleas  had  built  her  that  little  bower  on  the  night 
he  had  left  her  sleeping.  Her  eyes  grew  deep  with  desire 
as  she  thought  of  it  all,  even  as  she  had  thought  of  it  a 
thousand  times  since  then.  Pelleas's  dark  face  was  garlanded 
with  green  in  her  memory,  and  trouble,  as  it  ever  does,  had 
made  love  take  deeper  root  in  her  bosom. 

Cheeriness  comes  with  action.  Igraine,  fettered  no 
longer,  footed  it  along  the  road  with  snatches  of  song  on 
her  lips,  and  her  eyes  full  of  summer.  A  quiet  wind  came 
up  from  the  west,  and  the  clear  morning  air  suited  her 
courage.  All  the  wide  world  seemed  singing ;  the  trees 
had  an  epithalamium  on  their  whispering  tongues,  and  the 
sky  seemed  strewn  with  white  garlands.  The  tall  corn  in 
its  occasional  cohorts  bowed  down  to  her  with  murmuring 
acclaim  as  though  it  guessed  her  secret. 

When  she  had  gone  a  league  or  so  she  sat  down  under  a 
tree  and  made  a  meal  from  the  stuff  in  her  wallet.  Country 
folk  went  by  on  the  road,  for  it  was  market-day  in  Win- 
chester. One  apple-cheeked  lad  seeing  a  nun  sitting  there 
came  devoutly  with  his  palms  full  of  fruit  taken  from  his 
ass's  pannier,  and  made  his  offering  with  a  shy  smile  and  a 
bend  of  the  knee.  Igraine,  touched,  blessed  him  most 
piously,  and  gave  him  a  kiss  to  cap  it.  The  lad  blushed 
and  went  away  thinking  he  had  never  seen  such  a  pretty 
nun  before,  and  wondering  if  there  were  many  like  her  in 
the  great  abbey.  Igraine  watched  him  towards  Winchester, 
and  wished  some  country  girl  joy  of  a  good  husband. 

Presently  she  held  on  again  in  great  spirits,  nor  had  she 
gone  very  far  when  a  tinkling  of  bells  came  up  behind  her 
with  a  merry  clatter  of  hoofs.  Turning  aside  to  give  passage, 
she  looked  back  and  saw  an  old  gentleman  riding  comfort- 
ably on  a  white  mule  with  two  servants  jogging  along  behind 


GORLOIS  153 

him  on  cobs.  The  old  man's  bridle  was  fringed  with  little 
silver  bells  that  made  a  thin  jingle  as  he  rode ;  he  was 
solidly  gowned  in  plum-coloured  cloth  turned  over  with 
sable,  and  seemed  of  comfortable  degree,  judging  by  his  trap- 
pings. Igraine  looked  up  in  his  face  as  he  passed  by,  while 
the  old  gentleman  stared  down  to  see  what  sort  of  woman- 
hood lurked  under  a  nun's  hood.  The  man  on  the  mule 
was  Eudol,  Radamanth's  bosom  gossip. 

"  Hey  now,  on  my  soul,"  said  the  little  merchant,  reining 
in  with  a  will ;  "  what  have  we  here,  my  dear,  gadding 
about  nunwise  on  a  high-road  ?  My  faith,  I  must  hold  a 
catechism." 

Igraine,  knowing  the  old  man's  vulnerability,  answered 
with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  Master  Eudol,  you  are  a  very  lady's  man,  a  gem  of 
discretion." 

"  So,  and  truth,"  said  the  merchant,  with  a  chuckle. 

Igraine  went  close  to  him  and  patted  the  white  mule's 
neck,  while  the  serving  men  held  at  a  wise  distance. 

"  I  am  running  away  from  Winchester,"  she  said. 

"  Strange  sport,  my  dear." 

"  Now  you  must  not  tell  a  soul,  on  your  honour." 

"  Not  a  living  soul,  on  my  honour." 

Igraine  let  her  eyes  flit  a  laughing  look  up  at  him. 

u  Why  then,  Master  Eudol,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  order 
one  of  your  men  to  walk,  I  will  get  up  and  ride  along  with 
you  for  a  league  or  two.  There  is  trust  for  you." 

Eudol  appeared  entranced  with  the  suggestion.  He 
ordered  one  of  his  fellows  to  dismount,  to  spread  a  cloak 
over  the  saddle,  to  shorten  a  stirrup  leather  and  give  Igraine 
his  knee.  The  girl  was  soon  mounted,  seated  side  fashion 
with  one  sandalled  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  one  hand  on  the 
pommel  to  steady  her.  She  flanked  Eudol's  white  mule, 
and  they  rode  on  side  by  side  at  a  level  tramp,  with  the 
henchmen  some  twenty  paces  in  the  rear. 

Eudol  soon  waxed  fatherly,  as  was  his  custom.  He 
twitted  Igraine  on  the  temerity  of  her  venture  with  the 


154  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

senile  and  pedantic  jocosity  of  an  old  man.  He  said  things 
that  would  have  been  impertinent  on  the  tongue  of  a 
youngster,  and  exerted  to  the  full  that  eccentric  fad  of  age, 
the  supposition  that  youth  needs  pleasant  patronage  and 
nothing  more.  Old  men,  holding  young  folk  to  be  fools, 
reserve  to  their  rusty  brains  the  privilege  of  seeming  wise. 
They  are  content  to  straddle  the  crawling,  leather-jointed 
circumspection  that  they  call  knowledge.  The  bird  flutters 
to  his  mate,  sings,  soars,  and  is  taken  before  night  by  the 
fowler.  The  snail  creeps  his  rheumy  round  covered  with  the 
slime  and  slobber  of  prudence,  to  rot  in  the  end  under  a  tree- 
stump,  unless  some  good  throstle  cracks  him  prematurely  on 
a  stone.  Eudol  had  something  of  the  snail  about  him,  but 
he  assayed  none  the  less  to  ape  the  soaring  of  youth  with  a 
very  ragged  pair  of  wings.  That  morning  he  flew  with  a 
senile  eagerness  for  Igraine's  favour,  and  thought  himself 
a  match  for  any  young  man  in  the  matter  of  light  chivalry. 

"  Come  now,  my  dear,"  he  said, "  let  us  have  a  good  look 
at  you." 

"  Well,  sir  ?  " 

"  My  word,  you  make  a  gorgeous  nun.  Who  ever  saw 
such  eyes  under  a  hood  before  !  My  dear,  you  are  quite 
foolhardy  to  go  pilgrimaging  alone ;  men  are  such  rogues, 
and  you  have  such  a  pretty  face." 

There  was  a  cringing  tone  about  the  old  sinner  that 
made  Igraine  thoroughly  despise  him.  He  seemed  to  com- 
bine elderly  bravado  with  smooth  servility,  qualities  peculiarly 
obnoxious  to  the  girl's  spirit.  She  had  never  liked  or  trusted 
Eudol  overmuch  in  the  past,  but  she  was  at  pains  to  be  civil 
to  him  now,  seeing  that  he  might  serve  her  in  sundry  ways. 
She  took  his  speeches  with  outward  graciousness,  and  laughed 
at  him  hugely  in  her  heart. 

He  began  to  lecture  her  in  rather  egotistical  fashion. 

"  You  must  remember,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  one  whose  experience  may  be  relied 
upon.  I  may  tell  you  that  my  judgment  is  much  valued  by 
your  good  uncle  Radamanth,  a  man  of  much  sagacity,  but 


GORLOIS  155 

yet  one  who  lacks  just  that  subtle  insight  into  events  that  I 
may  say  has  always  been  my  special  characteristic.  I  am  so 
experienced  that  I  may  deserve  the  infinite  honour  of  advising 
you  if  you  care  to  tell  me  where  you  are  going.  I  have  had 
so  much  to  do  with  the  world,  that  I  can  tell  you  the  best 
tavern  in  any  town  this  side  of  the  Thames  where  clean  and 
honest  lodging  may  be  had.  I  can  inform  you  as  to  tolls, 
prices,  customs,  bye-laws.  Are  you  soon  returning  to 
Winchester  ?  " 

Igraine  shook  her  head  at  him. 

"  Who  have  you  been  quarrelling  with,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Myself  most." 

"  To  think  of  it,  syrup  quarrelling  with  honey  !  What 
will  your  Lord  Gorlois  do  ? " 

Igraine  stifled  the  question  on  the  instant. 

"  Master  Eudol,  leave  that  name  alone  if  you  want  more 
of  my  company." 

"  Pardon,  my  dear,  pardon.  I  did  not  know  it  was  so 
unpleasant  a  topic." 

u  I  hate  the  very  name  of  him." 

"  My  dear,  such  a  splendid  fellow." 

"  Detestable  boaster." 

"  Tut,  tut,  —  a  very  popular  nobleman  ;  just  the  very  man 
for  you,  and  vastly  rich.  Now  when  I  heard  that  he  —  that 
gentleman  —  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  Master  Eudol,  leave  your  chatter." 

The  old  merchant  for  the  moment  looked  a  little  taken 
aback.  Then  he  smiled,  pulled  his  goat's  beard,  and  grew 
epigrammatic. 

"  She  who  wears  a  gilded  shoe,"  he  said,  "  will  find  it 
pinch  in  the  wearing.  Stick  to  your  sandals,  my  dear,  and 
let  your  pretty  white  feet  go  brown  in  the  sun.  Better 
breathe  in  the  open  than  freeze  in  a  marble  house.  Just 
play  the  savage  and  let  ambition  go  hang." 

Igraine  thanked  him  as  though  she  held  his  counsel  to 
be  of  the  most  inestimable  value  to  herself.  She  was  wise 
enough  to  know  that  to  please  an  old  man  you  must  take 


156  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

his  words  in  desperate  earnest,  and  appear  much  caught  by 
his  supreme  sagacity.  Eudol  smacked  his  lips  and  was  com- 
fortably warm  within  himself.  He  went  on  to  tell  the  girl 
that  he  was  riding  to  a  little  country  manor  that  he  owned 
some  few  leagues  from  Winchester.  He  informed  her  senti- 
mentally that  he  was  a  very  Virgil  over  his  farm  and  garden. 
Igraine  thought  u  Virgil "  might  well  be  Greek  for  "  fool," 
but  she  hid  her  ignorance  under  her  hood.  Eudol  ran  on  to 
dilate  on  the  subtleties  of  husbandry,  making  a  fine  parade 
of  expert  phraseology  in  the  doing  of  it. 

"  I  see  you  do  not  follow  me,"  he  said  presently.  "  Young 
folk  are  not  fond  of  turning  over  the  sods ;  they  love  grass 
for  a  scamper,  not  clay  and  dull  loam.  Shall  we  talk  of 
petticoats  or  sarcenet  that  runs  down  a  pretty  figure  like 
water  ?  Eh,  my  dear  ?  You  set  the  tune,  I'll  follow." 

Igraine  contented  herself  with  keeping  him  to  his  hobby. 

u  My  father  loved  his  violet  beds,"  she  said. 

"Wise  man  —  wise  man.  A  garden  makes  thoughts 
sprout  as  though  they  would  keep  time  to  the  leaves.  You 
shall  see  my  garden.  Let  me  see,  what  road  are  you  for 
following  ?  " 

"  The  road  to  fortune,  Master  Eudol." 

u  Truth,  then,  it  must  run  near  my  doorway.  The  good 
woman  who  keeps  house  for  me  will  make  you  most  wel- 
come. You  must  rest  on  your' journey." 

"  You  are  very  good." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  dear.  I  shall  call  you  St.  Igraine  — 
hee,  hee  !  —  and  you  will  ripen  all  the  apples  in  my  orchard 
by  looking  at  'em.  Faith,  am  I  not  a  wag  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  be  at  court,  sir." 

"  Hee,  hee  !  " 

"  You  would  make  all  the  young  squires  red  with  envy." 

"  My  dear,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Truth." 

"  To  flatter  an  old  man  so  —  " 

u  But  you  are  really  such  a  courtier." 

Eudol  squirmed  and  chuckled  in  the  grotesquest  fashion. 


GORLOIS  157 

"  Assuredly  we  make  very  good  friends,"  he  said. 

Eudol's  manor  nearly  halved  the  mileage  between  Sarum 
and  the  royal  town  of  Winchester,  and  Igraine  found  his 
suggestion  quite  a  happy  help  to  her  plans.  If  needs  be,  she 
could  bide  the  night  there  and  make  Sarum  next  day  with 
but  trivial  trouble.  She  was  glad  in  a  way  that  she  had 
fallen  in  with  Eudol,  for  the  ride  had  proved  quite  a  charity 
to  her,  and  his  antique  vanities  had  passed  the  time  better 
than  more  modest  characteristics  could  have  done.  Her 
only  fear  was  lest  he  should  cheat  her,  and  send  word  to 
Radamanth.  Accordingly  she  spoke  to  him  again  about  her 
flight,  and  made  him  promise  on  the  Cross  that  he  would 
not  betray  her  whereabouts.  Eudol,  silly  soul,  was  ready 
enough  by  now  to  promise  her  almost  anything. 

About  noon  they  halted  and  made  a  meal,  with  a  flat 
stone  lying  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  for  table.  Eudol  drank 
quite  enough  wine  to  quicken  his  failings,  and  to  lull  what 
common  sense  he  had  to  sleep.  He  became  so  maudlin,  so 
supremely  sentimental,  that  Igraine  had  much  ado  to  throttle 
her  laughter.  She  quite  feared  for  him  when  they  had  to 
get  to  horse  again.  His  men  had  to  hoist  him  into  the 
saddle  between  them.  Once  there  he  seemed  quite  arro- 
gantly confident  of  his  seat,  and  being  a  hardy  old  gentleman 
at  the  pot  he  soon  steadied  down  into  comparative  docility, 
managing  his  mule  as  though  there  had  been  no  such  luxury 
as  dinner.  He  was  more  garrulous  and  fatherly  than  ever ; 
now  and  again  he  had  to  quench  a  hiccough  ;  otherwise  he 
was  only  an  exaggerated  portrait  of  himself. 

An  hour's  ride  brought  them  to  Eudol's  own  pastures. 
He  pointed  out  his  sheep  to  Igraine  amid  the  clanking  of 
their  diverse  bells,  and  told  her  the  profits  of  the  last  shearing. 
Soon  the  house  edged  into  view,  a  homely  place  set  back  an 
arrow's  flight  from  the  road,  and  ringed  round  with  a  score 
or  so  old  trees.  It  was  a  green  and  quiet  spot,  mellow 
with  the  warm  comfort  of  pastureland  and  wood.  A  pool 
twinkled  in  the  meadows,  through  which  ran  a  small  stream. 

There  was  no  bridge  over  the  brook ;  the  track  crossed 


158  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

it  by  a  shallow  ford  where  the  water  gurgled  over  pebbles. 
The  banks  were  loose  and  crumbling,  and  the  trackway 
littered  with  stones.  Eudol's  mule  went  over  sure-footed  as 
a  goat,  but  Igraine's  horse,  slipping  on  the  slope,  set  a  fore- 
hoof  on  a  shifting  stone,  and  rolled  down  with  a  crash.  The 
girl  did  not  avoid  in  time,  and  the  brute's  body  pinned  her 
ankle.  She  felt  the  sinews  crack,  and  the  stones  bruise  her 
flesh.  For  a  moment  she  was  in  danger  of  the  animal's 
plunges  to  rise,  but  one  of  the  men  came  up  and  seized  the 
bridle,  while  his  fellow  drew  Igraine  clear. 

Eudol  climbed  down,  splashed  through  the  water,  and 
came  up  puffing  sympathy.  Igraine  tried  to  walk,  but 
gave  up  with  a  wry  face.  The  men  helped  her  to  the  grass 
bank,  where  she  sat  down,  with  Eudol  fussing  round  her 
like  an  old  woman.  He  sent  the  men  on  to  the  manor  to 
bring  a  bed  ;  and  seeing  that  Igraine  had  grown  white  from 
the  wrench,  he  ran  for  the  wine-flask  at  his  saddle-bow  and 
urged  her  to  drink.  The  girl  had  more  fear  of  a  spoilt 
journey  than  a  cracked  bone,  and  feeling  faint  for  the 
moment,  she  suffered  Eudol,  and  took  the  wine.  The  old 
man  was  on  his  knees  by  her  stroking  her  hand,  his  thin 
beard  wagging,  and  his  glazed  eyes  vinously  sympathetic. 
When  the  men  came  back  with  the  bed  they  laid  Igraine 
thereon,  and  bore  her  through  the  meadows  to  the  house, 
Eudol  following  like  a  spaniel  at  their  heels. 


VII 

WHILE  Igraine  slept  in  the  abbey  dormitory  and  dreamt 
of  Pelleas,  the  man  Gorlois  burnt  on  the  grid  of  his  own 
passions,  and  found  no  peace  for  his  soul. 

The  night  sky  was  not  a  whit  more  black  than  his  spirit, 
and  his  sinister  cogitations  were  chequered  ever  with  palpi- 
tating points  of  fire.  The  restless  fever  of  an  unfed  leopard 
seemed  his,  and  he  was  in  and  out  of  his  tumbled,  sleepless 
bed  ten  times  before  dawn.  Only  a  boar-hound  kept  him 


GORLOIS  159 

company,  a  savage  red-eyed  brute  whose  temper  suited  that 
of  his  master ;  the  dog  followed  Gorlois  as  he  wandered 
from  bed-chamber  to  atrium,  out  from  the  peristyles  to  the 
garden,  down  walks  of  yew  and  cypress,  between  the  beds 
of  helicryse  and  asphodel,  over  the  smooth  lawns  clear  in  the 
eye  of  the  moon.  There  was  an  evil  thing  in  Gorlois's 
thought,  a  thing  fit  for  beggarly  disrelish,  yet  very  white 
and  lovely  to  look  upon.  He  stalked  like  a  ghost  in  the 
night,  biting  his  lips,  looking  into  the  dark  with  red  and 
eager  eyes.  How  often  he  reached  out  in  naked  thought 
and  clasped  only  the  air.  He  cursed  himself  and  the  woman, 
honoured  and  abused  her  in  one  breath,  grew  hot  and  cold 
like  a  live  coal  played  upon  by  a  fickle  wind. 

As  soon  as  dawn  came  he  had  a  plunge  and  a  swim  in  a 
pool  in  the  garden,  and  having  suffered  the  ceremony  of  a 
state  toilet,  went  out  unattended  into  the  town.  It  was 
the  very  hour  when  Igraine  was  shaking  her  fist  at  Win- 
chester for  thought  of  him,  but  Gorlois  was  spared  the  prick 
of  self-knowledge  and  the  frank  truth  of  the  girl's  distaste. 
He  thought  her  nothing  more  than  a  shrew,  and  the  pos- 
sessor of  a  splendid  temper.  His  long  legs  and  the  heat  at 
his  heart  soon  took  him  down  through  the  quiet  streets  and 
the  market  square  to  Radamanth's  house. 

Early  as  was  the  hour,  the  goldsmith  had  escaped  sloth 
and  was  busy  at  his  ledgers  in  his  little  counting-house 
behind  the  parlour.  Gorlois  came  in  in  great  state,  with  the 
serving  wench  who  announced  him  feasting  her  curiosity  on 
his  face  with  a  sheepish  giggle.  Radamanth,  fetched  from 
his  figures,  bowed  very  low,  and  made  the  gentleman  a  most 
obsequious  welcome.  He  was  wondering  what  Gorlois's 
humour  might  be  after  the  repulse  of  yesterday.  To  tell 
the  truth,  Radamanth  felt  somewhat  ashamed  of  the  trick 
he  had  served  Igraine,  and  he  was  none  too  eager  to  meet 
his  niece,  seeing  that  she  still  seemed  determined  to  hide  her 
anger  in  her  room.  His  doubts  as  to  Gorlois's  mood 

o 

were  set  at  rest  by  that  gentleman's  somewhat  saturnine 
opening. 


160  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

44  Radamanth  !  " 

"  Your  honour's  servant." 

"  I  have  come  to  make  peace." 

"  Your  lordship's  magnanimity  is  phenomenal." 

44  Was  I  over  hasty,  goldsmith  ?  "  , 

"  A  young  man's  way,  my  lord ;  no  fault  at  all.  Many's 
the  time  I  had  my  face  smacked  as  a  youngster,  and  was 
none  the  worse  in  favour.  Take  no  serious  view,  sir,  but 
press  her  the  harder.  She'll  give  in  —  my  faith,  yes,  being 
young  and  full  of  bone.  You  are  troubled,  my  lord,  with 
too  much  conscience." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  woman  since  ?  " 

Radamanth  raised  his  eyebrows  and  shrugged. 

u  Well,  no,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  my  niece  has  rather 
a  hot  spirit  —  breeding,  my  lord  —  proud  blood  in  her." 

"  I  know  that  part  of  her  nobleness  well  enough." 

Radamanth  refrained  a  moment  from' a  sense  of  discretion. 

44  My  lord  would  see  her  ?  " 

41  I'll  not  budge  till  I  have  done  so." 

44  You  understand  women  ?  " 

Gorlois  smiled  a  peculiar  smile. 

44 1  have  wit  enough,"  he  said.     "  I  have  my  plan." 

44  If  it  please  you,  sir,  to  go  into  the  garden,  I  will  en- 
deavour to  send  her  to  you." 

44  No  more  locking  of  doors,  goldsmith." 

44  Sir,  I  contemn  my  late  indiscretion  in  your  service." 

Gorlois  passed  out  by  a  long  passage  into  the  gardens, 
with  its  green  leaves  shelving  to  the  river,  while  Radamanth, 
half  a  coward  at  heart,  went  towards  the  stair  that  led  to 
Igraine's  chamber.  Halfway  up  he  met  the  girl  Lilith 
coming  down,  very  white  and  frightened  looking,  as  though 
she  dreaded  her  father's  face.  Radamanth  kissed  her,  and 
asked  for  Igraine.  Then  her  distraught  v  look  dawned  on 
him  in  the  twilight  of  the  stairway,  and  made  him  suddenly 
suspicious. 

44  Is  Igraine  awake  ?  " 

Lilith  hid  her  face  in  his  sleeve. 


GORLOIS  l6l 

"  Speak,  girl,  what's  amiss  ?  " 

"  The  room  is  empty." 

«  What  !  " 

"  Igraine  has  left  us,"  said  the  girl  with  a  stifled  whimper. 

Radamanth,  sage  and  solemn  soul,  lapsed  into  the  sin  of 
blasphemy. 

"  When  did  you  learn  this,  girl  ?  " 

"Father  —  " 

"  Quick  now,  don't  lie." 

He  shook  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Father,  be  gentle  with  me." 

"  Quick,  hussy." 

"  I  can't,  I  can't." 

Radamanth  took  her  firmly  by  the  wrist  and  brought  her 
with  no  very  considerate  care  into  the  parlour. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  thrusting  her  into  a  chair,  "  you  atom 
of  ingratitude,  tell  me  what  you  know." 

Lilith  began  to  sob.  She  hid  her  face  behind  her  fingers 
and  dared  not  look  at  Radamanth.  The  goldsmith  chafed 
and  paced  the  room,  hectoring  her. 

"  Don't  think  to  fool  me,"  he  said  ;  "  you  know  more 
yet ;  you  would  have  answered  before  if  there  had  been  any 
truth  in  you." 

Radamanth's  harshness  seemed  certainly  to  calm  the  girl, 
and  to  conjure  up  some  passing  antagonism  in  her  heart. 

"  The  blame  is  yours,  father." 

"  Impertinent  child." 

u  Igraine  was  angry  with  you." 

"  Well,  have  I  not  treated  her  like  a  daughter  ? " 

"  She  fled  away  last  night." 

"  Where  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  do." 

"  I  don't,  father  ;  'tis  truth." 

The  girl's  brown  eyes  appealed  to  him  tearfully ;  she 
was  honest  enough,  and  Radamanth  knew  it.  He  took  her 
sincerity  for  granted  and  proceeded  to  question  her  further. 


1 62  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  How  was  she  clothed,  child  ?  " 

Lilith  looked  at  the  floor  and  plucked  at  her  gown  with 
her  fingers. 

"  Do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  Then  answer  at  once." 

«  I  can't." 

"  Upon  my  soul  —  " 

"  Igraine  made  me  promise." 

Radamanth  lost  his  temper  again  and  began  to  bluster 
like  a  March  wind.  Lilith's  cheeks  were  wet  with  her 
tears  ;  they  ran  down  and  dropped  into  her  lap  like  little 
crystals.  She  shook  and  sobbed  in  her  chair,  but  answered 
not  a  word,  a  martyr  to  her  promises.  Then  Radamanth, 
man  of  money-bags  and  craft,  found  something  wherewith  to 
loose  her  tongue. 

"Listen,"  he  said  ;  "  a  certain  lad  never  enters  this  house 
again,  and  you  never  again  have  speech  with  him,  unless 
you  answer  me  this  at  once." 

The  mean  measure  triumphed.  Lilith's  tears  never 
ceased,  but  she  gave  way  at  last,  and  hating  herself,  told 
Radamanth  what  he  wanted.  Then  he  left  her  there  to 
whimper  by  herself,  and  went  into  the  garden  to  speak  with 
Gorlois. 

The  Count  of  Cornwall  guessed  from  the  merchant's 
face  that  matters  had  fallen  out  ill  for  him  somewhere. 
He  forestalled  Radamanth's  confession  with  an  impatient 
gust  of  words. 

"  She  is  still  in  a  deuce  of  a  temper  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  it  is  otherwise." 

"  Then  why  so  glum  —  man,  have  I  not  uncovered  ingots 
of  gold  for  you  if  I  wed  ?  " 

Radamanth  held  his  hands  up  like  a  priest  giving  a 
blessing.  Any  one  might  have  thought  him  grieved  to 
death  by  the  ingratitude  of  his  niece's  desertion.  The 
goldsmith  dealt  in  coarser  sentiment. 

"  My  lord,  the  girl  has  forsaken  my  house  and  fled." 


GORLOIS  163 

Gorlois  had  half  expected  some  such  news.  He  said 
nothing,  but  merely  stared  at  Radamanth  with  dark  masterful 
eyes,  while  his  ringers  played  with  the  tassels  of  his  belt. 
His  heart  was  already  away  over  moor  and  dale  chasing  the 
gleam  of  a  golden  head  of  hair. 

"  When  did  you  miss  her,  goldsmith  ?  " 

"  She  crept  away  at  dusk  yesterday." 

«  Whither  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows,  my  lord." 

"  How  dressed  ?  " 

"  As  a  grey  nun." 

"  Has  she  gone  back  to  the  Church  ?  " 

"  She  did  not  love  such  a  life,  my  lord." 

«  By  God,  no." 

Gorlois  frowned  a  moment  in  thought.  The  scent  of 
the  girl's  dress  was  still  in  his  nostrils,  and  her  eyes  haunted 
him.  Then  he  turned  past  Radamanth  to  go,  hitching  up 
his  sword  belt,  a  significant  habit  he  had  learnt  long  ago. 

"  I  shall  find  her,"  he  said. 

"  Good,  my  lord." 

"  I  have  your  countenance." 

"  Be  kind  to  the  girl,  sir." 

"  I  could  go  to  hell  for  her." 

"  My  lord,  why  not  try  heaven  ?  " 

"  A  good  jest." 

"  Men  always  go  to  hell  for  things,"  said  the  goldsmith. 

There  was  life  and  stir  enough  in  Gorlois's  great  house 
when  its  master  came  back  that  morning.  Gorlois's  orders 
were  like  a  torch  to  tinder.  Men  went  to  every  wind, 
some  to  the  gates,  some  to  the  market,  others  to  the 
religious  houses  and  the  inns,  all  bent  on  striking  the 
trail  of  a  nun's  grey  gown.  The  men  knew  their  master's 
mood,  and  the  measure  of  his  pulse  on  such  occasions. 
Gorlois  bided  quiet  in  his  garden,  more  like  a  leopard  than 
a  lover.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  catch  Igraine,  and  to 
win  mastery  of  her,  hook  or  by  crook,  since  she  chose  to 
play  the  shrew  and  mar  his  wooing.  It  was  not  likely  that 


1 64  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

one  of  the  first  men  in  Britain  should  be  baffled  by  the 
temper  of  a  goldsmith's  niece. 

About  noon  a  certain  slave  who  had  gone  out  to  net 
news  came  back  with  much  elation  and  claimed  his  lord's 
ear.  Brought  in  before  Gorlois,  he  told  how  he  had  talked 
with  a  boy  selling  fruit  in  the  market-place,  and  how  the 
boy,  when  questioned,  had  told  him  of  a  nun  he  had  seen 
sitting  under  a  tree  by  the  road  to  Sarum  that  very  morning. 
The  lad  had  described  her  as  a  very  beautiful  lady  with 
large  eyes,  and  a  cloud  of  red-brown  hair,  and  that  she  wore 
a  grey  nun's  habit  somewhat  torn  and  travel-stained. 
Gorlois  thought  he  recognised  Igraine,  and  gave  the  slave 
fifty  acres  and  his  freedom  on  the  instant.  Waiting  for 
further  news,  word  was  brought  him  that  a  grey  nun  had 
been  marked  by  the  guard  going  out  of  the  western  gate 
not  very  long  after  dawn.  Later  still  Gorlois  heard  of  such 
a  nun,  calling  herself  Meliboea,  having  lodged  the  night  at 
the  great  abbey  of  St.  Helena. 

Gorlois  held  himself  in  leash  no  longer.  He  buckled  on 
his  richly  gilt  armour,  and  his  great  white  horse  was  saddled 
and  brought  into  the  court.  Not  a  knight  would  he  have 
at  his  back,  neither  groom  nor  page.  Getting  to  horse 
in  the  full  welt  of  the  afternoon  sun,  he  rode  out  of 
Winchester  alone  by  the  western  gate,  watched  of  many 
people.  Once  clear  of  the  town  he  pricked  incontinently 
for  Sarum,  lusting  much  to  catch  Igraine  upon  the  way. 

About  that  very  same  hour  Eudol  was  exerting  himself 
in  Igraine's  service  in  the  manor  farm  in  the  meadows. 

The  men  had  carried  her  up  from  the  ford  and  set  her 
at  her  own  seeking  in  a  shady  place  in  the  garden  where 
she  might  lie  at  peace.  It  was  a  pleasant  nook  enough 
where  they  had  set  her  bed,  a  patch  of  bright  green  grass 
with  a  bank  of  flowers  on  one  hand  and  dense  laurel  hedge 
hiding  it  from  the  track  to  the  house  on  the  other.  A  vine 
trained  upon  poles  raised  a  pleasant  pavilion  there.  Autumn 
would  soon  be  whispering  in  the  woods,  and  already  some 
few  leaves  were  ribbed  with  gold  and  maroon. 


GORLOIS  165 

Eudol  played  the  physician  and  made  a  very  critical 
examination  of  her  ankle.  He  prided  himself",  among  his 
other  vanities,  on  having  studied  Galen,  and  since  the  heal- 
ing craft  is  often  a  matter  of  phenomenal  words  and  wise 
nothings,  Eudol  might  have  outphysicked  Gildas  at  his  own 
game.  The  art  of  medicine  is  the  art  of  hypocrisy,  and  the 
sage  apothecary  is  often  a  broken  reed  trembling  in  the 
wind  of  ignorance.  Eudol,  having  no  reputation  at  stake, 
pronounced  Igraine's  hurt  to  be  a  mere  strain  of  the  ankle- 
joint,  and,  as  it  happened,  he  was  right.  He  swathed  her 
foot  in  wet  linen  and  set  it  on  a  pillow,  while  the  woman 
who  kept  house  for  him,  a  red-cheeked  piece  of  buxomness, 
brought  wine  and  food-stuff  on  a  tray.  Seeing  a  nun's 
habit  the  good  woman  was  comforted,  and  indulged  Igraine 
with  many  smiles  and  much  motherly  care. 

Eudol  came  and  sat  beside  her  with  a  great  book  on  his 
knee,  Virgil's  Bucolics,  as  he  told  her,  and  writ  most 
learnedly  for  the  edification  of  the  wise.  Eudol  read  very 
little  of  the  book  that  afternoon.  The  volume  abode  with 
him  for  effect,  but  he  preferred  rather  to  dwell  upon  the 
more  Ovidian  interest  of  the  girl  beside  him,  and  to  talk  to 
her  in  his  familiar  and  fatherly  fashion.  He  made  many  sly 
attempts  to  get  the  purpose  of  her  pilgrimage  from  her,  but 
Igraine  had  enough  wit  to  keep  him  discreetly  mystified  on 
the  subject.  She  was  wondering  all  the  while  how  long 
her  strained  ankle  would  keep  her  to  her  bed. 

Eudol  smothered  her  with  offers  of  hospitality. 

"  On  my  word  you  shall  not  be  dull,"  he  said,  "  though 
there  is  only  an  old  man  to  entertain  you.  One  day  you 
shall  ride  out  in  a  litter  to  my  vineyards,  another  you  shall 
be  carried  out  a-hunting.  I  have  a  little  wench  here  who 
can  harp  and  sing  like  a  mermaid.  By  the  poets,  I  can 
make  you  quite  a  merry  time." 

Igraine  made  the  best  smile  she  could,  and  thanked  him. 

"  You  must  not  put  yourself  out  for  me." 

"  Nonsense." 

"  You  are  very  good." 


1 66  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Eudol  shook  his  finger  with  most  earnest  expression. 

"  My  dear  lady,  it  is  duty,  duty,"  he  said. 

They  had  not  been  so  very  long  in  the  garden  when 
Igraine's  quick  ear  caught  the  sharp  and  rhythmic  smite  of 
hoofs  on  the  stony  track  across  the  meadows.  The  sound 
disquieted  her,  for  she  was  in  the  mood  for  dreads  and 
suspicions.  Listening  to  make  sure  that  the  sound 
approached,  she  appealed  to  Eudol  and  asked  him  to  look 
and  see  who  rode  for  the  manor.  There  was  a  little  wicket- 
gate  some  way  down  the  laurel  hedge  carefully  screened  by 
shrubs.  Eudol  went  to  it,  and  scanned  the  meadows  under 
his  hand.  He  came  back  somewhat  flustered  to  Igraine, 
and  told  her  that  a  knight  in  gilded  armour  mounted  on  a 
white  horse  was  riding  up  the  track  to  the  house. 

Igraine  started  up  on  her  bed  with  her  eyes  very  big  and 
suspicious. 

"  It  is  Gorlois,"  she  said. 

"  Heavens,  my  dear !  " 

"  You  have  not  been  lying  to  me  ?  " 

"  On  my  soul  —  no." 

Igraine  touched  her  forehead  with  her  hand,  and  looked 
askance  at  the  sun. 

"  Master  Eudol,  if  you  would  serve  me,  go  and  fool  the 
man  —  send  him  away." 

"My  dear  child  —  " 

"  He  must  not  see  the  servants  or  have  speech  with 
them." 

"But  —  " 

u  I  command  you,  go  and  speak  to  him ;  he  is  very 
near." 

Eudol  looked  at  her  with  his  lower  lip  a-droop.  His 
grey-green  eyes  met  Igraine's,  gleamed,  and  faltered.  He 
bent  over  the  bed. 

"  I  will  do  my  best.  Give  me  a  kiss,  my  dear.  By 
Augustus,  I  will  get  rid  of  Gorlois  if  I  can." 

He  went  out  quickly  by  the  wicket-gate,  and  closing  it 
after  him,  waited  for  the  knight  to  approach.  There  were 


GORLOIS  167 

no  slaves  about,  and  Eudol  remembered  with  confidence  that 
his  men  were  in  the  corn  fields,  weH  away  to  the  north. 
Gorlois  came  up  with  the  splendid  arrogance  that  so  suited 
him,  his  rich  armour  glowing  above  the  white  flanks  of  his 
horse,  his  spear  balanced  on  his  thigh.  Eudol  went  forward 
some  paces  to  meet  him,  as  though  to  learn  his  business. 
Igraine,  listening  behind  the  laurel  hedge,  heard  their  words 
as  plainly  as  though  the  two  men  were  but  three  paces 
away. 

"  Greeting,  sir,"  said  Eudol's  thin  voice. 

Then  she  heard  Gorlois's  clear  sharp  tenor  questioning 
him.  She  heard  him  ask  whether  a  grey  nun  had  called  for 
food,  or  whether  Eudol  had  seen  or  heard  of  such  a  person. 
She  heard  the  old  man's  meandering  negative,  and  Gorlois's 
retort  that  a  grey  nun  had  been  seen  riding  beside  a  mer- 
chant on  a  white  mule.  Igraine's  heart  seemed  to  race 
and  thunder.  Eudol,  rising  to  the  event,  suggested  that  the 
merchant  might  be  a  certain  fabulous  person  from  Aquae 
Sulis  ;  a  man  of  means,  he  said,  who  often  came  by  Sarum 
to  Winchester  in  the  fur  trade.  He  hinted  that  the  knight 
might  overtake  them  on  the  road,  or  discover  them  at  Sa- 
rum that  evening.  Gorlois  fell  to  the  suggestion.  Igraine 
heard  him  inquire  further  of  Eudol,  speak  to  his  horse,  and 
ride  away  with  a  ringing  clatter.  She  sat  on  her  couch 
behind  her  laurel  rampart  and  laughed. 

Eudol  came  back  to  her,  pleased  as  possible. 

"  How  was  that  done,  —  sweeting  ?  " 

"  Nobly,"  laughed  Igraine. 

"The  Virgin  pardon  me;  what  perjury  for  a  pair  of 
lips." 


VIII 

NOTHING  is  more  chafing  to  the  patience  than  to  lie  abed 
crippled,  knowing  the  while  that  coveted  hours  are  slipping 
through  one's  fingers  like  grains  of  gold.  To  Igraine,  her 


1 68  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

maimed  ankle  was  a  very  thorn  in  the  flesh.  Her  thoughts 
were  tugging  to  be  at  Sarum,  and  she  was  in  continual  fear 
lest  Radamanth  or  Gorlois  should  track  her  to  her  temporary 
refuge,  and  attempt  to  mar  her  freedom.  She  was  not  a 
woman  who  could  take  hindrance  with  perfect  philosophy, 
comforting  herself  with  the  reflection  that  care  never  yet 
salved  unrest.  She  chafed  at  delay,  and  even  blamed  Eudol 
with  great  unreason  because  he  had  obliged  her  with  a  horse 
not  proof  against  stumbling. 

The  knowledge  that  Gorlois  rode  in  search  of  her  did  not 
tend  to  the  easing  of  her  mind.  She  began  to  understand 
Gorlois  to  the  full.  He  had  betrayed  so  much  of  himself 
in  Radamanth's  garden  that  her  dread  grew  nearly  as  great 
as  her  disrelish. 

Eudol  had  made  her  comfortable  enough  in  his  manor, 
she  had  no  need  to  find  fault  with  his  hospitality.  She  had 
her  own  room,  a  little  girl  to  wait  and  sing  to  her,  fruit  and 
food  of  the  best.  She  spent  the  greater  part  of  each  day  in 
the  garden,  her  bed  being  set  under  the  vine  leaves  ;  two  of 
Eudol's  slaves  would  carry  her  down  in  the  morning  and 
bear  her  back  again  at  night,  so  that  she  should  not  be  too 
venturesome  in  trying  her  ankle.  The  old  merchant  kept 
his  folk  close  on  the  farm  and  suffered  none  to  go  to 
Winchester  or  Salisbury,  for  fear  lest  the  knowledge  of 
Igraine's  whereabouts  should  leak  into  interested  channels. 

The  more  the  girl  saw  of  Eudol  the  less  she  relished  him 
in  her  heart.  The  lean  look  of  him,  his  little  green  eyes, 
his  thin  goat-like  beard,  reminded  her  much  of  the  picture  of 
some  old  Satyr  she  had  seen  in  the  frescoes  on  the  walls  of 
the  triclinium  at  Winchester.  He  grew  more  fatherly  and 
kind  to  her,  would  smile  like  some  old  saint  as  he  sat  and 
read  moralities  to  her  from  the  lives  of  some  of  the  Fathers. 
He  was  very  fond  of  holding  her  hand  and  stroking  it  while 
he  purred  sentiment,  and  made  her  colour  to  hear  his 
nonsense.  He  was  quite  wickedly  delighted  when  he  had 
fetched  a  blush  to  her  face.  He  would  sit  and  chuckle  and 
hug  himself,  while  his  little  eyes  glistened  and  his  beard 


GORLOIS  169 

shook.  Igraine,  though  her  cheeks  often  tingled,  did  her 
best  to  suffer  him,  knowing  well  enough  that  she  was 
greatly  dependent  for  her  peace  of  mind  upon  his  good-will. 
She  would  laugh,  turn  his  senile  flatteries  into  jest,  and  as- 
sume his  humour  as  the  most  vapoury  and  fanciful  piece  of 
fun  possible.  She  often  hinted  that  Eudol  must  be  neglect- 
ing his  farm  for  her  sake,  though  her  suggestions  were 
absolutely  to  no  purpose,  seeing  that  Eudol  had  forgotten 
all  about  such  mundane  matters  as  harvesting  or  the  press- 
ing of  cider. 

One  afternoon  they  had  a  shrewd  fright,  and  the  incident 
led  in  its  final  development  to  Igraine's  leaving  the  manor 
in  the  meadows.  She  was  in  the  garden  with  Eudol  when 
two  horsemen  wearing  Gorlois's  livery  rode  up  to  the  gate 
and  demanded  entertainment  with  much  froth  and  bombast. 
They  were  sturdy  hot-tongued  rogues,  quick  at  liquor, 
quicker  still  at  blasphemy.  Eudol,  much  flustered,  had  them 
brought  into  the  house  and  set  loose  upon  a  wine  flask 
while  he  smuggled  Igraine  out  of  the  garden.  There  was  a 
barn  standing  on  the  other  side  of  a  little  meadow  near  the 
house,  and  the  building  was  screened  by  a  fringe  of  pines 
and  a  thorn  hedge.  Eudol  hurried  Igraine  to  the  barn,  saw 
her  couched  on  a  pile  of  hay,  closed  the  door  on  her,  and 
scampered  back  to  take  great  care  of  Gorlois's  gentlemen. 

Eudol  proved  a  most  obsequious  and  attentive  host.  He 
kept  the  men  primed  with  wine,  watched  them  like  a  lynx, 
forbade  his  slaves  and  servants  the  room  so  that  there  should 
be  no  chance  of  gossip.  The  fellows  thought  themselves 
well  harboured.  Eudol,  hardy  old  tipster,  kept  them  going 
with  a  will,  till  they  swore  he  was  the  best  old  gentleman  at 
his  cups  they  had  met  this  side  of  the  Thames.  He  out- 
drank,  out-yarned,  out-jested  the  pair  of  them.  Grown  very 
mellow  towards  evening,  they  vowed  by  all  the  calendar  that 
they  loved  him  so  much  they  would  make  a  night  of  it,  and 
not  go  to  bed  till  they  were  carried.  Eudol  could  have 
denied  himself  their  great  esteem,  but  there  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  humour  them. 


I/O  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

He  got  rid  of  the  fellows  next  morning,  when  they  went 
away  sadly,  very  glazed  about  the  eyes,  swearing  they  would 
pay  him  another  visit  at  their  very  earliest  opportunity. 
Eudol,  when  they  were  out  of  sight,  went  out  to  the  barn 
and  found  Igraine  comfortably  couched  there  on  a  mass  of 
hay.  The  little  maid  who  served  her  had  brought  her 
supper  on  the  sly  the  night  before,  and  she  had  fared  well 
enough  in  her  new  quarters. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Eudol  had  had  a  parting  cup  with 
the  men  that  morning,  and  had  hardly  outbreathed  as  yet 
the  maudlin  heritage  gotten  the  previous  night.  He  kissed 
Igraine's  hand,  mumbled  his  usual  courtesies,  excused  his 
long  absence  with  a  warmth  that  nearly  brought  him  to 
tears.  He  was  somewhat  flushed  over  the  cheek  bones  ;  his 
eyes  were  bright,  and  his  breath  pregnant  with  the  heavy 
scent  of  wine.  Igraine  wiped  the  hand  he  had  kissed  on 
her  gown,  looked  at  him  with  little  love  or  gratitude,  and 
told  him  that  she  had  been  trying  to  walk,  and  that  her 
ankle  bore  her  passably. 

Eudol,  edging  near,  proceeded  to  narrate  at  preposterous 
length  how  he  had  kept  Gorlois's  men  employed,  made 
them  drunk  as  cobblers,  and  packed  them  off  innocently  to 
Winchester  that  morning.  He  was  hugely  sly  over  it  all. 
He  came  and  climbed  up  beside  Igraine  on  the  hay,  and 
pinched  her  arm  with  his  lean  fingers  as  he  talked.  There 
was  a  gaunt,  red,  eager  look  about  his  face.  It  was  quite 
twilight  in  the  great  barn,  and  a  mingled  smell  of  hay  and 
pitch-pine  filled  the  air,  while  dusty  beams  of  light  filtered 
through  in  steady  streams. 

Eudol's  vinous  and  fatherly  solicitude  developed  abruptly 
into  an  absurd  revelation  of  his  inner  self.  He  had  hold  of 
Igraine's  arm  with  one  hand.  Leaving  go  suddenly,  he 
reached  for  her  waist,  poked  his  grey  beard  into  her  face, 
and  made  a  clumsy  dab  at  her  cheek.  In  a  moment  the 
girl's  arm  had  swept  him  backwards  like  an  impotent  bag 
of  bones.  She  saw  him  overbalance  and  roll  off  the  haycock 
on  to  the  edge  of  a  scythe.  Without  waiting  for  more,  and 


GORLOIS  171 

with  a  glimpse  of  the  old  fool's  slippers  still  in  the  air,  she 
slipped  down  from  the  hay  and  out  of  the  barn,  and  shutting 
the  door,  pegged  the  catch  with  a  piece  of  wood.  Then 
she  went  laughing  half  resentfully  towards  the  house,  and 
told  Dame  Phoebe  that  her  master  had  gone  to  the  fields  to 
oversee  his  slaves. 

The  woman  had  taken  a  remarkable  dislike  to  Igraine, 
being  sulky-eyed  and  dumb-saucy  in  her  presence  as  far  as 
she  dared.  The  grey  nun  told  her  that  she  was  ending  her 
sojourn  at  the  farm  that  morning,  and  was  going  on  foot 
for  the  west.  The  woman's  face  changed  as  suddenly  as  a 
spring  sky.  She  was  suave  and  smiling  instanter,  ready 
with  queries  as  to  Igraine's  ankle,  very  eager  to  pack  her 
wallet  with  stuff  from  Eudol's  larder.  Igraine,  with  an 
inward  flush,  saw  how  the  wind  blew.  She  was  keen  to  be 
gone  before  Eudol  should  be  loosed  from  the  barn  ;  even 
the  woman's  changed  mood  seemed  a  tacit  insult  in  itself. 

She  was  soon  treading  the  meadows  where  the  backs  of 
Eudol's  sheep  stood  out  like  white  boulders  on  the  solitary 
stretch  of  green.  The  country  began  to  be  as  flat  as  a 
table,  though  there  were  still  masses  of  woodland  piled  on 
either  side  the  great  white  road.  Igraine  kept  in  among 
the  trees  with  just  a  glimpse  of  the  highway  to  keep  her 
to  her  mark.  Her  grey  gown  passed  almost  unperceptibly 
among  the  mould-grown  trunks  as  she  went  in  the  chequered 
light  like  a  grey  mouse  through  green  corn.  Her  ankle 
bore  her  better  than  she  had  prophesied,  and  she  made  fair 
travelling  at  a  modest  pace.  Later  in  the  afternoon  the 
strain  began  to  tell  in  measure,  and  her  ankle  ached  and 
felt  hot,  as  though  she  had  done  enough.  Sitting  down  on 
a  fallen  tree  she  watched  the  road,  and  waited  for  some  one 
to  pass. 

A  charcoal  burner  went  by  with  a  couple  of  asses 
panniered  up  with  a  comfortable  load.  Then  came  two 
soldiers  and  a  couple  of  light  wenches  who  haunted  camp 
and  castle  and  lived  to  the  minute.  Next,  a  great  wain 
half  ladened  up  with  faggots  came  lumbering  along,  drawn 


UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

by  a  pair  of  sleepy  horses,  and  driven  by  a  peasant  in  a 
green  smock  and  leather  breeches.  Igraine  took  her  choice, 
and  going  down  from  the  trees,  stood  by  the  roadside,  and 
begged  of  the  man  a  lift. 

Seeing  a  nun  looking  up  at  him  the  man  reined  in, 
climbed  down  cap  in  hand,  and  louted  low  to  her.  There 
was  some  clean  straw  spread  over  the  boards  at  the  bottom 
of  the  cart.  The  man  helped  her  up  on  to  the  tail-board 
and  raked  the  straw  into  a  heap  to  make  her  a  seat.  Then 
they  lumbered  on  again  towards  Sarum. 

In  due  course  she  began  to  talk  to  the  man  as  he  sat  on 
a  couple  of  faggots  and  held  the  ropes.  He  was  an  honest, 
ignorant  fellow,  with  a  much  whiskered  face  that  wore  a 
perpetual  look  of  kindly  stupidity.  Igraine  sought  to  know 
whether  he  was  going  as  far  as  Sarum.  The  man  shook 
his  bushy  head  like  an  amiable  ogre,  and  told  her  that  he 
was  for  his  lord's  manor  some  two  leagues  distant,  where 
he  served  as  woodman  and  ranger,  or  soldier  when  there 
was  need  of  steel.  He  commended  his  lord's  house  to  her 
for  lodging,  with  a  solid  faith  in  the  generosity  of  its  board. 
Questioned  as  to  other  habitations,  he  told  her  of  a  hermit's 
cell  set  in  a  little  dale  in  the  woods,  a  cell  where  wandering 
folk  often  found  harbour  for  the  night.  Igraine  made  up 
her  mind  to  choose  the  ascetic's  bread  and  water,  having 
had  enough  of  the  world's  welcome.  Possibly  in  some  dim 
and  distant  way  she  began  to  realise  the  intense  and  en- 
grained selfishness  of  the  human  heart. 

The  man  of  faggots,  believing  her  a  holy  woman,  soon 
began  to  relate  his  domestic  troubles  to  her  with  a  most 
touching  reverence.  He  told  her  how  his  wife  had  been 
abed  two  months  from  her  last  childbirth,  and  how  sad 
and  dirty  his  little  cabin  was  for  lack  of  her  hands.  He 
asked  Igraine  to  put  the  woman  in  her  bede-role,  a  simple 
favour  that  she  granted  readily  enough.  Then  the  fellow 
with  some  stolid  pathos  went  on  to  describe  how  his  eldest 
lad,  a  boy  of  eight,  had  caught  a  fever  through  sleeping  in 
the  woods  after  rain,  and  how  he  had  fallen  sick. 


GORLOIS  .173 

"  I  went  to  a  good  monk,"  said  the  man,  "  and  bought 
holy  water  and  a  pinch  of  dust  from  a  saint's  coffin.  Pardy  ! 
but  it  cost  me  a  year's  savings.  The  good  father  bade  me 
pour  the  water  on  the  boy's  head  and  shake  the  dust  over 
his  body.  Glad  I  was,  holy  sister ;  I  ran  five  miles  home 
to  cure  the  lad." 

"  And  he  is  well  ?  " 

The  man  gave  a  doleful  whistle. 

"  The  boy  died,"  said  he  with  pathetic  candour,  and  a 
short  catch  in  his  voice.  "  I  didn't  sleep  two  whole  nights. 
Then  I  kissed  my  woman,  mopped  her  eyes,  and  went  and 
told  the  priest." 

Igraine  merely  nodded. 

"  Ah,  the  dear  father,  he  told  me  'twas  God's  will,  and 
that  the  blessed  dust  had  drifted  the  lad  straight  to  heaven, 
where  he  would  be  singing  next  King  David  like  any  lord. 
So  he  came  and  buried  the  boy,  and  there  was  an  end 
on't." 

Igraine  for  the  moment  felt  heavy  about  the  eyes. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  there  in  his  little  white  stole," 
she  said.  "  Do  you  know,  goodman,  why  so.many  children 
die  ?  " 

"  Faith,  madame,  I  have  no  learning,"  said  the  fellow 
with  a  dumb  stare. 

"  Because  the  great  God  loves  to  have  children  laughing 
for  love  of  him  in  heaven." 

"  Is't  so  ?  " 

"  That  is  why  he  took  your  boy." 

The  man's  face  brightened  with  a  new  dignity. 

"  Little  Rual  was  ever  a  gentle  child,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  tell  my  woman  ;  it  will  just  make  her  happy." 

"  I  will  pray  for  her  health." 

"  God  bless  you,  holy  lady,  you  have  a  wise,  kind  heart." 

Igraine  blushed,  but  said  nothing. 

Presently  the  man  stopped  his  horses,  and  pointed  her  to 
a  little  path  that  led,  he  said,  to  the  hermitage.  He  helped 
Igraine  out  of  the  cart,  and  knelt  on  the  road  for  her  to  give 


1/4  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

him  a  blessing.  Igraine  had  a  Latin  phrase  or  two  from 
Avangel,  and  the  benediction  was  earnest  enough  in  spirit, 
though  it  lacked  genuine  authority.  Then  she  took  the 
path  through  trees,  and  left  the  man  standing  cap  in  hand 
by  his  waggon.  Her  brief  ride  with  him  had  done  her 
heart  good. 

A  mile's  walk  through  unkempt  pastures  and  straggling 
thickets  brought  her  to  an  open  dale  set  beneath  the  shoulder 
of  a  wooded  hill.  On  the  grass  slope  over  against  her  she 
saw  the  hermitage  —  a  grey  cell  of  unfaced  stone  standing 
in  a  garden  in  a  grove  of  ancient  thorns.  By  the  rivulet 
that  ran  half  hid  by  undergrowth  a  figure  in  a  brown  cas- 
sock was  drawing  water.  Passing  down  over  the  water, 
Igraine  overtook  the  recluse  halfway  up  the  slope  to  the 
hermitage  garden.  She  remarked  his  bald  head  fringed  with 
a  mournful  halo  of  hair,  his  stooping  shoulders,  his  un- 
gainly weak-kneed  gait.  Hearing  her  tread  behind  him  he 
turned  a  tanned  face  to  her,  a  face  that  brought  forth 
a  smile  of  brotherly  greeting  at  sight  of  a  nun.  Igraine, 
by  way  of  creating  good  feeling,  took  his  water  pot  and 
carried  it  for  him,  pleading  youth  in  extenuation  of  the 
service. 

There  was  a  keen  yet  kindly  sapience  about  the  old 
man's  big-nosed  face  that  caught  her  fancy.  He  was  a  bit 
of  a  cynic  on  the  surface,  but  warm  as  good  earth  at  heart. 
Igraine  confessed  her  need  of  a  lodging  for  the  night,  and 
the  man  retorted  bluntly  with  the  remark  that  the  hermitage 
was  not  his  house,  —  but  only  a  refuge  to  bury  strangers  in. 
Pointing  to  a  great  slab  of  stone  that  stood  near  the  little 
cell,  he  told  her  that  the  stone  had  been  his  bed,  summer  and 
winter,  these  fifteen  years,  and  that  dew,  rain,  frost,  and 
snow  had  worked  their  will  upon  his  body  and  found  it 
leather.  The  confession,  pithily  —  almost  humorously  — 
put,  without  a  trace  of  rodomontade,  set  the  girl  smiling.  She 
looked  at  the  man's  brown  buckram  skin  and  congratulated 
him,  embodying  her  flattery  in  a  little  jest  that  seemed  to 
catch  the  ascetic  fancy.  He  commended  it  with  a  patriarchal 


GORLOIS  175 

twinkle,  and  throwing  open  the  door  of  his  cell  surrendered 
her  its  shelter. 

Igraine  soon  fathomed  the  shallow  compass  of  the  her- 
mitage. It  held  two  pallet  beds,  some  rude  furniture  and 
crockery,  and  such  things  as  were  necessary  to  the  old  man's 
craft,  namely  a  scourge,  a  calthrop  set  on  the  end  of  an  iron 
chain,  a  coat  made  of  furze,  a  garland  of  thorn  twigs,  and 
a  pair  of  spiked  sandals.  Gardening  tools  were  piled  in  a 
corner.  Over  the  doorway  hung  a  rusty  suit  of  harness  and 
a  red  crusted  sword.  Here  in  this  narrow  place  the  war 
tools  of  world  and  church  were  mingled. 

Igraine  turned  back  into  the  hermitage  garden.  It  was 
a  quiet  spot,  webbed  with  the  faery  tracery  of  flowers  and 
flowering  shrubs,  golden  with  helichryse,  full  of  the  mist  of 
unshorn  grass,  bright  with  the  water  of  its  little  fish-pool, 
where  the  ferns  grew  thick.  A  low  wattle  fence,  climbed 
about  by  late-seasoned  roses  of  red,  shut  the  whole  within 
its  rustic  pale.  Some  of  the  herb  beds  were  cut  into 
symbols  of  holy  things,  and  a  bay  tree  had  been  laboriously 
pruned  into  the  rude  image  of  a  cross.  A  number  of  doves 
peopled  the  place,  flocking  about  the  hermit  as  he  worked, 
often  lighting  on  his  hands  or  shoulders,  while  an  old  hound 
dozed  in  the  sun,  or  followed  at  his  heels.  Peace  seemed 
over  the  little  refuge  like  a  tranquil  sky. 

The  hermit  handed  Igraine  a  hoe,  as  a  matter  of  custom, 
and  set  her  to  work  on  the  weeds  in  a  neglected  corner, 
while  he  busied  his  hands  with  pruning  some  of  his  rose 
trees,  and  removing  the  clay  and  linen  from  his  grafts.  He 
was  by  no  means  the  solemn,  dismal  soul  or  the  kindly 
simpleton  Igraine  might  have  expected.  He  had  a  keen, 
world-wise  air  about  him  that  made  him  seem  a  sort  of 
Christian  Diogenes,  and  it  was  plain  that  he  had  lived  much 
among  men.  The  mingled  austerity  and  happiness  of  his 
habits,  when  set  beside  his  inwardly  sympathetic  yet  some- 
what cynic  humour,  gave  a  strong  interest  to  his  personality 
that  quite  commanded  Igraine's  liking.  Despite  the  vast 
responsibilities  of  man,  as  he  himself  put  it,  he  was  not 


1 76  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

above  having  a  jest  at  life  in  general.  "  For,"  said  he,  as  he 
pruned  his  rose  bushes,  "  he  who  knows  and  obeys  the  truth 
can  of  all  men  afford  to  be  merry." 

Igraine,  smiling  through  the  boughs,  agreed  with  him 
from  her  heart. 

"  There  are  no  sour  faces  in  heaven,"  she  said. 

"  Assuredly  not,"  said  the  hermit  almost  fiercely. 

"  Then  why  such  mortifications  of  the  flesh,  father  ?  " 

Looking  up  from  his  pruning,  he  beamed  over  the 
world. 

"  I  am  a  very  human  rogue." 

"  Human  !  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  sister,  mea  culpa,  I  loved  the  world  when 
I  was  in  it  like  my  own  life,  and  even  now  if  I  did  not 
gnash  upon  myself  I  should  grow  frivolous  at  times.  When 
I  have  spent  a  night  in  the  rain,  or  plied  my  scourge,  it  is 
marvellous  how  swiftly  vain  the  fabrics  of  a  vaunting  pride 
become.  1 1  am  dust,  I  am  dust,'  I  cry,  and  am  sound  at 
heart  again.  I  look  upon  bread  and  olives  and  a  draught  of 
river  water  as  true  godsends.  Having  endured  exceeding 
discomfort  of  the  flesh,  I  am  as  happy  in  the  sun  here  among 
my  flowers  as  a  mortal  could  be." 

Igraine  rested  on  her  hoe,  and  put  her  head  back,  while 
the  evening  light  gave  her  hair  a  rare  metallic  lustre. 

"  You  believe  in  a  life  of  contrasts,  father  ?  " 

The  old  man  became  suddenly  more  serious. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  said,  "  I  have  found  that  by 
making  myself  fanatically  uncomfortable  so  many  hours  a 
day,  I  can  attain  for  the  rest  of  it  that  simple,  contented,  and 
heaven-soaring  mood  that  belongs  to  the  honest  Christian. 
Man's  great  peril  is  apathy,  and  my  customs  save  me  from 
sleepy  ease.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  living  to  pander  to 
the  flesh  ;  it  is  the  creed  of  the  majority.  In  order  to 
enjoy  a  truly  spiritual  end,  I  annihilate  the  appetites  of  the 
body,  and  ecce  homo,  —  merry,  conscience  whole,  clean." 

Igraine  resumed  her  harrowing  of  reprobate  green- 
stuff. 


GORLOIS  177 

"  I  suppose  your  doctrine  is  right  for  yourself,"  she  said. 

An  answer  came  back  to  her  leisurely  over  the  rose  bush. 

u  To  the  backbone,  sister.  Yet  I  am  not  one  who  would 
thrust  my  habits  down  other  men's  throats  simply  because 
the  said  habits  happen  to  suit  my  soul.  All  religious 
methods  are  a  matter  of  individual  experiment.  One  man 
may  feel  more  Christian  if  he  drinks  wine  instead  of  water; 
if  so  —  by  all  the  prophets  —  let  him  have  his  wine.  I  hold 
doctrinal  tyranny  to  be  the  greatest  curse  in  Christendom." 

Igraine  agreed  with  him  like  a  sister. 

Soon  the  sun  went  down  with  a  flood  of  gold  over  the 
trees,  the  little  pool  put  off  sheeny  samite  for  black  velvet, 
and  the  doves  flew  up  to  roost.  The  hermit  in  a  genial 
mood  went  to  his  vesper  meditations.  Igraine  saw  him 
kneel  down  before  the  great  stone  with  his  scourge  and 
crucifix  beside  him.  She  was  still  carnal  enough  to  prefer 
the  thin  comfort  of  a  pallet  bed  in  the  hermitage  to  stone  or 
mother  earth.  When  it  had  grown  dark  and  very  still  she 
heard  the  swish  of  the  steel  scourge,  and  the  man's  mutter- 
ings  mingled  with  the  occasional  baying  of  his  dog.  This 
phase  of  mind  was,  at  her  age,  quite  incomprehensible  to  her. 
She  remembered  to  pray  that  night  for  the  peasant's  wife 
who  had  been  sick  in  bed  so  long,  and  for  the  little  lad  who 
lay  under  the  green  grass.  Then  she  went  to  sleep  thinking 
of  Pelleas. 


IX 

RADAMANTH  the  goldsmith  had  not  wasted  the  hours  since 
his  niece  had  fled  Winchester  and  his  house  in  the  dark. 
He  was  a  man  who  did  not  let  an  enterprise  slip  into  the 
limbo  of  the  past  till  he  had  attempted  honestly,  and  dis- 
honestly, for  that  matter,  to  bring  it  to  a  successful  issue. 
He  had  set  his  heart  on  getting  Igraine  married  to  one  of 
the  first  lords  in  the  island,  and  he  also  had  skew  ideas  as 
to  brimming  up  his  own  coffers.  Taking  it  for  granted  that 


1/8  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Lilith  and  the  girl  had  not  been  close  friends  for  weeks 
together  without  sharing  secrets,  and  being  also  strongly 
of  the  opinion  that  Igraine's  perversity  arose  out  of  some 
previous  affair,  he  laid  methodical  siege  to  his  daughter's 
confidences,  and  cast  a  parental  dyke  about  her  that  should 
compel  her  to  open  every  gate  and  alley  to  his  scrutiny. 

Lilith,  amiable,  but  weak  as  milk,  was  soon  worn  into 
surrender  by  her  father's  methods.  He  had  an  unfailing 
lash  wherewith  to  quicken  her  apprehension,  in  that  young 
Mark,  the  armourer's  son,  should  be  barred  the  house  unless 
she  bent  to  the  parental  edicts.  Lilith  soon  brought  herself 
to  believe  that  after  all  there  could  not  be  so  much  disloy- 
alty in  telling  certain  of  Igraine's  adventures  to  her  father. 
Radamanth,  bit  by  bit,  had  the  whole  tale  of  the  way  from 
Avangel  to  Winchester.  Seeing  how  often  Igraine  — 
woman-wise  —  had  pictured  her  man  to  Lilith,  the  gold- 
smith won  a  clear  perception  of  the  strange  knight's  person, 
how  he  rode  a  black  horse,  wore  red  armour,  bore  a  red 
dragon  on  a  green  shield,  and  was  called  Pelleas.  Rada- 
manth made  a  careful  note  of  all  these  things,  and  laid  the 
knowledge  of  them  before  Gorlois.  Various  subtleties 
resulted  from  these  facts  —  subtleties  carefully  considered 
to  catch  Igraine. 

To  turn  to  Eudol.  That  lean  old  satyr  had  fallen 
gravely  into  error  in  the  conviction  that  he  had  fooled  Gor- 
lois's  men  so  cleverly  over  the  wine-pot.  The  deceit  had 
been  deeper  on  the  other  side,  and  more  effectual,  seeing 
that  there  had  been  a  kirtled  traitor  in  the  manor  camp. 
If  Eudol  had  been  stirring  just  after  daybreak  on  the  morn- 
ing after  the  carouse,  he  might  have  caught  one  of  Gor- 
lois's  men  coming  down  a  little  winding  stair  that  led  to  a 
certain  portion  of  the  house.  A  little  earlier  still  he  would 
have  found  the  fellow  with  his  arm  round  Dame  Phosbe's 
waist  in  a  dark  entry  on  the  stairs.  The  woman  did  not 
love  Igraine,  nor  did  she  want  her  in  the  house ;  moreover, 
Gorlois's  man  was  young,  and  had  fine  eyes,  and  a  most 
wicked  tongue.  Eudol,  like  most  diplomats,  was  far  from 


GORLOIS  179 

being  infallible  when  there  was  a  woman  in  the  coil,  and 
Dame  Phoebe  was  very  much  a  woman. 

Gorlois's  fellows  had  no  sooner  cleared  the  meadows  that 
morning  than  they  were  away  for  Winchester  at  a  dusty 
rattle.  It  was  fast  going  over  the  clean,  straight  road,  and 
the  grey  walls  were  not  long  in  coming  into  view.  The 
pair  swung  through  the  western  gate,  and  went  straight 
through  the  streets  in  a  way  that  set  the  city  folk  staring 
and  dodging  for  the  pathway.  At  the  gate  of  Gorlois's 
house  the  porter  had  a  vexatious  damping  for  the  spirits  of 
these  fiery  gentlemen.  Gorlois  had  ridden  out.  The  men 
swore,  off-saddled,  and  made  the  best  of  the  matter  over  a 
game  of  dice  in  the  kitchen. 

There  was  great  bustle  when  Gorlois  had  heard  the 
men's  tale.  They  excused  their  not  having  taken  Igraine 
on  the  plea  that  Gorlois  had  forbidden  any  to  approach 
her  save  himself.  The  man  was  in  a  smiting  mood,  and 
he  swore  Eudol  should  rue  giving  him  the  lie  and  sending 
him  a  wild  chase  miles  into  the  west.  Getting  to  horse  at 
once,  and  taking  the  two  men  with  some  ten  more  spears, 
he  rode  out  and  held  for  Sarum. 

There  was  a  swirl  of  dust  before  Eudol's  gate,  and  a 
sharp  scattering  of  shingle  as  Gorlois  and  his  troop  rode  up. 
A  slave,  who  had  seen  them  from  the  garden,  and  had  taken 
them  for  robbers,  was  prevented  from  closing  the  gate  by 
a  brisk  youth  wedging  it  with  his  foot.  There  was  a  short 
scuffle  at  the  tottering  door.  Then  Gorlois  and  his  men 
burst  it  in,  and  cut  down  those  slaves  on  the  threshold  who 
had  tried  to  close  the  door.  The  women  folk  were  herded 
screeching  into  the  kitchen,  and  penned  there  like  sheep. 
Out  of  a  cupboard  in  an  upper  room  they  dragged  the 
woman  Phoebe,  limp  with  fright,  and  hurried  the  truth  out 
of  her  that  Igraine  had  gone  that  very  morning,  and  that 
Eudol  was  still  in  the  fields.  Gorlois,  believing  her  a  liar, 
had  the  house  searched,  beds  overturned,  cupboards  torn 
open,  every  nook  and  cranny  probed.  Then  they  tried  the 
garden  and  the  stables,  with  like  fortune.  One  of  the 


180  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

fellows  catching  sight  of  the  barn  across  the  meadows,  half- 
hidden  by  pines,  they  made  a  circle  round  it,  closed  in,  and 
forced  the  door.  A  blinking,  red-eyed  face  came  up  out  of  the 
shadows,  its  beard  and  thin  thatch  of  hair  whisped  with  hay. 

Eudol,  collared  with  little  kindness,  began  to  wonder 
after  his  drunken  sleep  who  these  rough  folk  could  be.  A 
word  as  to  Igraine  brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  saw 
Gorlois,  a  dark-bearded,  black-eyed  man,  with  a  frown  that 
he  did  not  like  the  look  of.  He  began  to  shake  in  his 
slippers,  to  excuse  himself,  and  to  deny  all  knowledge  of 
the  girl  since  the  morning.  Matters  were  against  Eudol. 
Gorlois  thought  that  he  had  plucked  the  old  man  from  hid- 
ing, and  that  he  was  a  liar  to  the  bone ;  his  shrift  was  short, 
measured  out  by  the  man's  hard  malice.  They  struck  him 
down  at  the  door  of  his  own  barn,  covering  his  grey  head  with 
his  hands,  and  screaming  for  mercy.  His  blood  soaked  the 
hay,  and  shot  black  streaks  into  the  dusty  floor.  Then  they 
cast  back  to  the  manor,  and  half-throttled  the  woman  Phoebe, 
till  Gorlois  was  satisfied  that  he  had  got  all  the  truth  from  her 
he  could.  In  half  an  hour  they  were  at  gallop  again  for  Sarum. 

Gorlois  reined  in  cruelly  more  than  once  to  fling  hot 
questions  at  the  folk  they  passed  upon  the  road.  His  horse 
was  all  sweat  and  foam,  and  its  mouth  bloody  with  the 
heavy  hand  that  played  on  the  bridle.  Wayfarer  after  way- 
farer looked  up  half  in  awe  at  the  iron-faced  man  towering 
above  them  in  the  stirrups.  Their  blank,  irresponsive  faces 
chafed  Gorlois's  patience  to  the  bone.  Not  a  word  did 
he  win  of  Igraine  and  her  grey  gown.  Waxing  sullen  as 
granite,  and  very  silent,  he  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
but  plodded  on  like  a  baffled  sleuth-hound  with  the  rest  of 
the  pack  trailing  at  his  tail.  The  girl's  hair  seemed  tossing 
over  the  edge  of  the  world,  like  a  golden  hue  from  the  west,  and 
there  was  a  passionate  wind  through  the  man's  moody  thought. 

It  was  towards  evening  when  Gorlois  with  his  men  —  a 
bunch  of  spears  —  came  upon  the  peasant  in  the  green  smock 
driving  his  wain-load  of  faggots  slowly  towards  the  setting 
sun.  Gorlois  drew  up  and  hailed  him,  and  began  his  cate- 


GORLOIS  l8l 

chism  anew.  The  fellow  pulled  in  his  team,  and  eyeing 
the  horseman  with  some  caution,  acknowledged  curtly  that 
he  had  carried  in  his  cart  a  league  or  more  such  a  woman 
as  Gorlois  had  pictured.  To  further  quick  queries  he  proved 
stubborn  and  boorish.  Gorlois  had  lost  his  temper  long 
ago.  "  Speak  up,  you  devil's  dog  !  " 

The  man  looked  sullen.  Gorlois's  sword  flashed  out. 
He  spurred  close  up,  and  held  three  feet  of  menacin'g  steel 
over  the  peasant's  head. 

"  Well,  you  be  damned  !  "  he  said. 

"  What  want  you  with  the  woman,  lording  ?  " 

"Am  I  to  argue  with  a  clod  of  clay?  The  woman  is 
marked  for  great  honour,  and  must  be  taken.  Will  you 
spoil  her  fortune  ?  " 

The  man  fingered  the  reins,  looking  hard  at  Gorlois  with 
his  stupidly  honest  face.  He  guessed  he  was  some  great  lord, 
by  his  harness  and  his  following.  It  was  not  for  him  to 
gainsay  such  a  gentleman,  especially  when  he  flourished  a 
naked  sword. 

"  I  would  do  my  best  for  the  good  nun,  lording,"  he  said. 

"  Then  speak  out." 

"  She  promised  to  pray  for  my  woman." 

Gorlois  gave  a  laugh,  and  scoffed  at  the  notion. 

"  Let  prayers  be,"  he  said ;  "  tell  me  where  she 
went." 

The  man  told  Gorlois  of  the  hermitage  in  the  dale  where 
Igraine  had  gone  for  a  night's  lodging.  He  described  how 
the  path  could  be  found,  a  mile  or  more  nearer  Winchester. 
Gorlois  threw  a  gold  piece  into  the  cart,  and  let  the  man 
drive  on.  Then  he  sat  still  on  his  black  horse  with  his 
sword  over  his  shoulder,  and  looked  into  the  wood  with  dark, 
glooming  eyes.  For  a  minute  he  sat  like  a  statue,  staring 
on  nothing  in  keen  thought.  His  men  watched  him,  look- 
ing for  some  swift  swoop  from  such  a  pinnacle  of  pondering; 
they  knew  his  temper.  His  sword  shot  back  into  its  scab- 
bard, and  he  was  keen  as  a  wolf. 

"  Galleas  of  Camelford." 


1 82  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

A  man  with  a  hooked  nose  and  high  cheek  bones  heeled 
his  horse  forward,  and  saluted. 

"  Ride  hard,  find  the  hermitage,  be  wary,  watch  at  a 
distance  for  sight  of  the  Lady  Igraine. '  If  she  is  at  the 
hermitage,  gallop  back  to  Sarum  before  nightfall.  I  shall 
be  in  Sir  Accolon's  house.  Attend  me  there." 

The  man  saluted  again,  turned  his  horse  instanter,  and 
rode  hard  into  the  east.  Gorlois,  with  a  half  smile  on  his 
lips,  rode  on  with  his  troop  for  Sarum. 

In  Sarum  town  there  was  a  queer  house  of  stone,  very 
dark  and  very  saturnine.  It  was  hid  away  behind  high  walls, 
and  hedged  so  blackly  with  yews  and  hollies  that  it  seemed 
to  stand  in  the  gloom  of  a  perpetual  twilight.  After  dark 
a  sullen  glow  often  hung  above  the  trees  ;  casements  would 
blaze  blood-red  light  into  boughs  creaking  and  clutching  in 
the  wind  ;  or  there  would  be  a  moony  glimmer  on  the  glass, 
and  belated  folk  passing  near  might  hear  voices  or  elvish 
music  about  them  as  though  dropped  from  the  stars.  It  was 
the  house  of  Merlin,  —  the  man  of  dreams,  —  wrapped  in  the 
gloom  of  immemorial  yews. 

That  night  Gorlois  sat  in  a  room  hung  with  black  velvet, 
where  a  brazier  held  a  dying  fire,  and  a  bowl  thereon  steamed 
up  perfumes  in  a  heavy  vapour.  A  man  with  a  face  of 
marble  and  eyes  like  an  eternal  night  was  chaired  before  him, 
with  his  long,  lean,  restless  fingers  continually  touching  the 
cloud  of  hair  that  fell  blackly  over  his  ears.  His  fingers 
were  packed  with  rings  gemmed  with  all  manner  of  stones 
— jasper,  sardonyx,  chrysolite,  emerald,  ruby,  and  the  like. 
His  gown  was  of  black  velvet,  twined  all  about  with  serpent 
scrolls  of  white  cloth.  On  his  breast  was  brooched  a  great 
diamond  that  blazed  and  wavered  back  the  glow  from  the 
fire. 

Gorlois  sat  in  his  carved  chair  stiff  as  any  image.  His 
strenuous  soul  seemed  mewed  up  by  the  psychic  influence 
of  the  man  before  him.  He  spoke  seldom,  and  then  only 
at  the  other's  motion  —  at  a  curious  gesture  of  one  of  those 
long,  lean  hands.  The  room  was  as  silent  as  the  burial  hall 


GORLOIS  183 

of  a  pyramid,  and  it  had  the  air  of  being  massed  above  by 
stupendous  depths  of  stone. 

Presently  the  man  in  the  black  robe  began  to  speak  with 
deliberate  intent,  holding  his  voice  deep  in  his  throat  so  that 
it  sounded  much  like  the  voice  of  an  oracle  declaring  itself 
in  the  noise  of  a  wind. 

"  The  woman  is  beautiful  beyond  other  women." 

"  Like  a  golden  May." 

"  And  true." 

"  As  a  sapphire." 

"  Yet  will  not  have  you." 

"  Not  a  shred  of  me." 

The  man  with  the  rings  smiled  out  of  his  impenetrable 
eyes,  and  lingered  the  brooch  on  his  breast. 

"  The  woman  has  great  destiny  before  her." 

"  Ah !  " 

"  I  have  seen  her  star  in  the  night.  You  dare  take  her 
fate  on  you  ?  " 

"  Like  ivy  holds  a  tree." 

"  As  a  wife  ?  " 

Gorlois  laughed. 

"  How  else  ?  " 

"  As  a  wife  —  by  the  church." 

«  Ah  !  " 

"  Or  no  help  of  my  hand." 

Again  there  was  silence.  A  coal  fell  in  the  brazier,  and 
seemed  like  a  rock  down  a  precipice.  The  black  eyes  that 
stared  down  Gorlois  were  full  of  light,  and  strangely  scin- 
tillant.  Gorlois  listened,  with  his  limbs  asleep  and  his  brain 
in  thrall,  while  the  man  spoke  like  a  very  Michael  out  of  a 
cloud.  The  clear  glittering  plot  given  out  of  Merlin's  lips 
came  like  a  dream  vivid  to  the  thought  of  the  dreamer.  If 
Gorlois  obeyed  he  should  have  his  desire,  and  catch  Igraine 
to  a  white  marriage-bed  by  law  and  her  own  willing.  The 
fire  died  down  in  the  brazier,  and  the  bowl  ceased  to  smoke 
perfumes.  Gorlois  saw  the  man  gather  his  black  robe  with 
his  glittering  fingers,  and  move  like  a  wraith  round  the 


1 84  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

room,  to  stand  beckoning  by  the  door.  In  another  minute 
Gorlois  was  under  the  stars,  with  the  house  and  its  yews  a 
black  mound  against  the  sky.  Like  a  sleeper  half  wakened 
he  took  full  breath  of  the  night  air,  and  stretched  his  arms 
up  above  his  head.  But  it  was  not  to  sleep  that  he  passed 
back  through  the  void  streets  to  the  house  of  the  knight 
Accolon. 

To  return  to  Igraine  housed  for  the  night  in  the  little 
hermitage.  At  the  first  creep  of  dawn,  when  daffodils  were 
thrown  up  against  the  eastern  sky,  she  left  her  pallet  bed  in 
the  cell  and  went  out  into  the  hermit's  garden.  The  recluse 
was  down  at  the  brook  drawing  water,  whither  the  dog  and 
the  doves  had  followed  him.  Igraine  passed  through  the 
garden  —  spun  over  as  it  was  with  webs  of  dew.  To  her 
comfort  she  found  her  ankle  scarcely  troubling  her,  for  she 
had  feared  pain  or  stiffness  after  the  walk  of  yesterday. 
Going  down  the  dale,  she  patted  the  old  dog's  head,  and 
picked  up  the  pitcher  as  the  recluse  gave  her  good-morning. 

"  You  are  an  early  soul,  sister.  My  dog  and  I  come 
down  to  the  brook  each  morning  as  the  sun  peeps  over  the 
hill." 

"  You  are  not  lonely,"  said  Igraine. 

The  old  man  tightened  his  girdle,  looked  over  the  solemn 
piers  of  the  woods,  sniffed  the  air,  and  hailed  an  autumn 
savour. 

"  Not  I,"  he  said.  "  I  have  my  dog  and  my  doves,  and 
folk  often  lodge  here,  and  I  have  word  of  the  world  and  how 
the  Saxons  vex  us.  The  good  people  near  bring  me  alms 
and  pittances,  or  come  to  ask  prayers  for  their  souls,  and  "  — 
with  a  twinkle  —  "  for  their  bodies,  too." 

Igraine  remembered  the  peasant's  little  son. 

"  Was  it  you,"  she  said,  "  who  gave  a  peasant  fellow  near 
here  a  saint's  dust  to  scatter  over  a  sick  child  ?  " 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  and  smiled  enigmatically. 

"  I  have  no  dealings  in  such  marvels,"  he  said. 

«  The  boy  died." 

"  Of  course." 


GORLOIS  185 

"  They  will  sell  your  dust  some  day." 

A  keen  look,  cynical  with  beaming  scorn,  spread  over 
the  man's  gaunt  face. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  them,"  he  said;  "  death  is  mon- 
strous flatterer  of  mere  clay.  I  may  feed  a  rose  bush  with 
my  bones ;  a  better  fate  than  the  cheating  of  superstitious 
women." 

He  made  a  sign  with  his  hand,  and  the  birds  went 
wheeling  in  circles  above  him.  The  dog  crept  up  and 
thrust  his  snout  into  the  old  man's  palm.  The  garden  lay 
above  them,  ripe  with  an  autumn  mellowness  ;  yet  there  was 
no  regret  though  winter  would  soon  be  piping,  and  the 
man's  hair  was  grey. 

"  What  think  you  of  life  ?  "   said  Igraine. 

"  You  should  know,  sister,  as  well  as  I." 

"  But  you  see,  father,  I  am  not  a  nun,  —  only  a 
novice." 

He  stared  at  her  a  moment  with  a  slight  smile. 

"  Remain  a  novice,"  he  said. 

41  You  advise  me  so  !  " 

"  Why  subordinate  your  soul  to  chains  forged  of  men." 

"  These  seem  strange  words." 

He  patted  his  dog's  head,  and,  half  stooping,  looked  at 
her  with  keen  grey  eyes. 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  a  man  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  clear  laugh  and  a  slight  colour. 

"  Is  he  worthy  ?  " 

"  I  believe  him  a  noble  soul." 

"Naturally." 

"  He  ran  away  and  left  me  because  he  thought  I  was  a 
nun." 

The  hermit  applauded. 

"  That  sounds  like  honour,"  he  said  critically. 

"I  am  seeking  him  to  tell  him  the  truth." 

"  And  I  will  pray  that  you  may  soon  meet,"  said  the  old 
man,  "  for  there  is  nothing  like  the  love  of  a  good  man  for 
a  clean  maid.  If  I  had  married  a  true  woman,  I  should 


1 86  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

never  have  taken  to  the  scourge  or  the  stone  bed.  Marry 
wisely  and  you  are  halfway  to  Heaven." 

They  broke  fast  that  morning  in  the  garden,  it  being 
the  man's  custom  to  make  his  meals  on  the  granite  slab 
that  served  him  as  a  bed.  The  little  dale  looked  very  green 
and  gracious  in  the  tranquil  light,  with  its  curling  brook 
and  dark  barriers  of  trees.  Igraine,  as  she  sat  on  the  great 
stone  and  ate  the  hermit's  bread,  followed  the  brook  with 
her  thoughts,  wondering  whether  it  became  the  stream  that 
ran  through  Eudol's  meadows.  She  was  for  Sarum  that 
day,  where  she  would  throw  off  her  grey  habit  and  take 
some  dress  more  likely  to  baffle  Gorlois.  She  had  enough 
money  in  her  purse.  Worldling  again,  she  could  give 
herself  to  winning  sight  of  this  Uther,  and  to  learning 
whether  he  was  the  Pelleas  she  sought  or  no. 

As  she  sat  and  fingered  her  bread,  something  she  saw 
down  the  dale  made  her  rigid  and  still  as  a  priestess  smitten 
with  the  vision  of  a  god  in  some  heathen  oratory.  Her 
eyes  were  very  wide,  her  lips  open  and  very  white,  her 
whole  air  as  of  one  watching  in  a  sudden  stupor  of  awe. 
Another  moment  and  she  had  broken  from  the  mood  like  a 
torrent  from  a  cavern.  With  eyes  suddenly  amber  bright, 
she  touched  the  hermit's  hand  and  pointed  down  the  dale, 
gave  him  a  word  or  so,  then  left  him  and  ran  down  the 
hill. 

A  man  on  a  black  horse  had  ridden  out  from  the  trees, 
and  was  pushing  his  horse  over  the  brook  at  a  shallow  spot 
not  far  away.  His  red  armour  glowed  in  the  sun  with  a 
metallic  lustre.  Even  at  that  distance  Igraine  had  seen  the 
red  dragon  rampant  on  a  shield  of  green.  As  she  ran  down 
the  grass  slope  she  called  the  man  by  name,  thinking  to  see 
him  turn  and  come  to  her.  Pushing  on  sullenly  as  though 
he  had  not  heard  the  cry  that  went  after  him  like  winged 
love,  he  drew  up  the  further  slope  without  wavering,  and 
sank  like  a  red  streak  into  the  dense  green  of  the  trees. 


GORLOIS  187 


X 

IGRAINE  forded  the  brook  and  followed  the  man  by  the 
winding  path  that  curled  away  into  the  wood. 

She  was  ever  a  sanguine  soul,  and  the  mere  sinister 
influences  that  might  have  discouraged  her  in  her  purpose 
that  morning  were  impotent  before  the  level  convictions  of 
her  heart.  She  had  seen  Pelleas  ride  in  amid  the  trees;  she 
was  sure  as  death  as  to  his  cognizance  and  his  armour. 
Now  Pelleas,  she  could  vow,  had  not  heard  her  call  to  him, 
and  if  he  had  heard  he  had  not  understood  j  if  he  had  seen 
he  had  not  recognised.  Doubts  could  have  no  place  in  the 
argument  before  such  a  justification  by  faith. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  caught  sight  of  the  red  glint 
of  armour  going  through  the  trees.  It  came  and  went, 
grew  and  disappeared,  as  the  path  folded"  it  in  its  curves  or 
thrust  out  a  heavy  screen  of  green  to  hide  it  like  a  heavy 
curtain.  The  man  was  going  as  he  pleased,  now  a  walk, 
now  a  casual  jog,  now  a  short  burst  of  a  canter  over  an  open 
patch.  One  moment  Igraine  would  see  him  clearly,  then 
not  at  all.  Sometimes  she  gained,  sometimes  lost  ground, 
yet  the  knight  of  the  red  harness  never  seemed  to  come 
within  lure  of  her  voice. 

In  due  course  she  reached  the  place  where  the  path 
ended  bluntly  on  the  Winchester  high-road,  and  where  the 
way  ran  straight  as  a  spear-shaft,  so  that  she  could  see 
Pelleas  riding  for  Winchester  with  a  lead  of  a  quarter  of  a 
mile.  The  distant  ringing  tramp  of  hoofs  came  up  to  her 
like  a  mocking  chuckle.  Putting  her  hands  to  her  mouth, 
she  hallooed  with  all  the  breath  left  her  by  her  run  through 
the  wood ;  yet,  as  far  as  she  might  see,  the  man  never  so 
much  as  turned  in  the  saddle,  while  the  smite  of  hoofs 
died  down  and  down  into  a  well  of  silence. 

Another  halloo  and  no  echo. 

u  He's  asleep,  or  deaf  in  his  helmet." 

She  forgot  the  distance  and  the  din  of  hoofs  that   might 


1 88  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

well  have  drowned  the  thin  cry  that  could  have  reached  the 
rider.  Maugre  her  heat  and  her  flushed  face  Igraine  had 
no  more  thought  of  giving  in  than  she  had  of  marrying 
Gorlois.  With  Pelleas  so  near  she  had  made  her  vow  to 
follow  him,  and  follow  him  she  would  like  a  comet's  tail. 
If  needs  be  she  would  wear  her  sandals  to  the  flesh,  but 
catch  the  man  she  must  in  the  end. 

A  mile  more  on  the  high-road,  with  her  feet  and  the  hem 
of  her  gown  dust-drenched,  and  she  was  still  little  nearer 
the  man  in  the  red  harness  for  all  her  hurrying.  She  could 
have  vowed  more  than  once  that  he  turned  in  his  saddle  and 
looked  back  at  her  as  though  to  see  how  near  she  had  come 
to  him  on  the  road.  A  mile  from  the  hermitage  path  he 
turned  his  horse  southwards  from  the  track  into  a  grass 
valley  headed  by  a  ruined  tower  and  hedged  densely  on 
either  hand  by  pine  woods.  Igraine,  seeing  from  a  slight 
rise  in  the  road  this  change  of  course,  cut  away  crosswise 
with  the  notion  of  getting  near  the  man  or  of  intercepting 
him  before  he  should  win  clear  law  again.  After  all,  the 
effort  added  only  more  vexation.  She  saw  the  black  horse 
pressed  to  a  canter  and  cross  the  point  where  she  might 
have  cut  him  off,  while  a  great  stretch  of  furze  that  rolled 
away  to  the  black  palisading  of  the  pines  came  down  and 
threw  a  promontory  in  her  path.  Pelleas  was  a  mile  to 
the  good  when  she  had  skirted  the  furze  and  the  bend  of 
the  wood,  and  taken  a  straight  course  southwards  down  the 
valley  between  the  pines. 

All  that  morning  the  sport  of  hunter  and  hunted  went 
on  between  the  novice  in  grey  and  the  man  on  the  black 
horse.  For  all  her  trouble  Igraine  won  little  upon  him, 
lost  little  as  the  hours  went  by ;  while  the  rider  in  turn 
seemed  in  no  wise  desirous  of  being  rid  of  her  for  good. 
They  passed  the  pine  woods  with  their  midnight  aisles, 
forded  a  stream,  climbed  up  a  heath,  went  over  it  amid  the 
heather.  From  the  last  ridge  of  the  heath  Igraine  saw 
the  country  sloping  away  into  undulating  grasslands,  piled 
here  and  there  with  domes  of  thicketed  trees.  Far  to  the 


GORLOIS  189 

south  a  dense  black  mass  rose  like  a  rounded  hill  against 
the  sky.  The  man  in  red  was  still  about  a  mile  in  front 
of  her,  riding  slowly,  a  red  speck  in  a  waste  of  green. 
Igraine,  having  him  in  view  from  her  vantage  point,  lay 
down  full  length  to  rest  and  take  some  food.  She  was 
tired  enough,  but  dogged  at  heart  as  ever.  She  vowed  that 
if  the  man  was  playing  with  her  she  would  tell  him  her 
mind,  love  or  no  love,  when  she  came  up  with  him  in  the 
end. 

As  the  sun  swam  into  the  noontide  arc  she  went  on 
again  downhill,  and  found  in  turn  that  the  man  had  halted, 
for  he  had  been  hidden  by  trees,  and  getting  view  of  him 
suddenly  she  saw  him  sitting  on  a  stone  with  his  horse 
tethered  near.  As  soon  as  Igraine  was  within  measurable 
distance  she  took  advantage  of  a  hollow,  dropped  on  her 
hands  and  knees,  and  began  to  crawl  like  a  cat  after  a  bird. 
Edging  round  a  thicket  she  came  quite  near  the  man,  but 
could  not  see  his  face.  His  spear  stood  in  the  ground  by 
his'horse,  and  he  had  his  shield  slung  about  his  neck,  and  a 
bare  poniard  in  his  hand.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  watching 
for  Igraine,  for  despite  her  craft  he  caught  sight  of  her  face 
peering  white  under  the  hem  of  a  bush,  and  climbed  quickly 
into  the  saddle.  Igraine  started  up,  made  a  dash  across  the 
open,  calling  to  him  as  she  ran.  Perverse  as  hate  his  horse 
broke  into  a  canter  and  left  her  far  in  the  rear.  The  girl 
shook  her  fist  at  him  with  a  sudden  burst  of  temper.  She 
was  standing  near  the  stone  where  the  man  had  been  sitting. 
Looking  at  its  flat  face  she  saw  the  reason  of  the  naked 
poniard  in  his  hand,  for  he  had  been  carving  out  thin 
straggling  letters  in  the  stone. 

"  Sancta  Igraine,"  she  read  — 

"  Ora  pro  nobis." 

The  screed  dispelled  the  doubts  in  Igraine's  mind  on  the 
instant.  Palpably  the  man  knew  well  enough  who  was 
following  him,  and  was ^  avoiding  her  of  set  purpose;  but 
for  what  reason  Igraine  racked  her  wit  to  discover.  She  ran 

D 

through  many  things  in  her  heart,  the  possible  testing  of 


190  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

her  devotion,  a  vacillating  weakness  on  Pelleas's  part  that 
would  not  let  him  leave  her  altogether,  a  freakish  wish  to 
give  her  penance.  Then,  she  knew  that  he  was  super- 
stitious, and  the  thought  flashed  to  her  that  he  might  think 
her  a  wraith,  or  some  evil  spirit  that  had  taken  her  shape 
to  have  him  in  temptation.  Maugre  her  vexation  and  her 
pride  she  held  again  on  the  trail,  eating  as  she  went  some 
dried  plums  that  she  had  in  her  wallet.  The  man  had 
slackened  down  again  and  was  less  than  half  a  mile  away, 
now  limned  against  the  sky,  now  f9lded  into  a  hollow  or 
shut  out  by  trees.  Like  a  marsh-fire  he  tantalised  her  with 
a  mystery  of  distance,  holding  steadily  south  at  a  level  tramp, 
while  Igraine  plodded  after  him,  her  hair  down  and  blowing 
out  to  the  casual  wind,  her  eyes  at  gaze  on  the  red  lure  in 
the  van. 

So  the  mellower  half  of  the  day  passed,  and  towards 
evening  they  neared  the  mount  of  trees  Igraine  had  seen 
from  the  last  ridge  of  the  heath  at  noon.  The  black  horse 
was  heading  straight  for  the  cloudy  mass  in  a  way  that  set 
Igraine  thinking  and  casting  about  for  Pelleas's  motive. 
Perhaps  he  had  some  quest  in  the  solitary  place  that  needed 
his  single  hand.  Would  he  take  to  the  wood  and  let  her 
follow  as  before,  or  had  he  any  purpose  in  leading  her 
thither  ?  Drowned  in  conjecture  she  gave  up  prophecy 
with  a  vicious  sense  of  mystification,  and  accepted  inevitable 
ignorance  for  the  time  being  as  to  the  man's  moods  and 
motives.  She  was  no  less  obstinate  to  follow  him  to  the 
death.  If  she  only  had  a  horse  she  would  come  near  the 
man,  pride  or  no  pride,  and  tell  him  the  truth. 

Pressing  on,  with  her  strained  ankle  beginning  to  limp, 
she  topped  the  round  back  of  a  grass  rise  and  came  full  in 
view  of  the  wood  she  had  long  seen  in  the  distance.  It 
looked  very  solemn  in  the  declining  light.  The  great 
trunks  of  giant  beeches  were  packed  pillar  upon  pillar  into 
an  impenetrable  gloom.  The  foliage  above,  densely  green, 
billowy,  touched  with  red  and  gold,  rolled  upwards  cloud 
on  cloud  as  the  ground  ascended  to  the  south  and  east. 


GORLOIS  191 

A  great  bronze  carpet  of  dead  leaves  swept  away  into  the 
night  of  the  trees.  There  was  an  eternal  hush,  a  gross 
silence,  over  the  glooming  aisles  that  seemed  to  beckon  to 
the  soul,  to  draw  the  heart  into  the  night  of  foliage  as  into  a 
cavern.  Over  all  was  the  glowing  aegis  of  the  setting  sun. 

Igraine  saw  the  man  on  the  forest's  edge  where  an  arch 
of  gloom  struck  into  the  inner  shadows.  He  was  facing 
the  west,  motionless  as  stone  on  his  black  horse,  with  the 
slanting  light  plucking  a  dull  red  gleam  from  his  harness. 
There  was  a  mystery  about  him  that  seemed  to  harmonise 
with  the  stillness  of  the  trees  and  the  black  yawn  of  the 
forest  galleries.  Igraine  imagined  that  he  might  be  in  a 
mood  at  last  to  speak  with  her  if  he  believed  her  human. 
At  all  events,  if  he  took  to  the  trees,  and  she  did  not  lose 
him,  she  would  have  the  vantage  of  him  and  his  horse  in 
such  a  barricaded  place. 

It  began  to  grow  dark  very  quickly  as  she  passed  down 
the  gradual  slope  towards  the  forest.  The  trees  towered 
above  her,  a  black  mass  rising  again  towards  the  east.  Keen 
to  see  the  man's  mood,  she  hurried  on  and  found  him  still 
steadfast  in  the  great  arch,  that  seemed  like  the  gate  of  the 
wilderness,  ready  to  abide  her.  A  hundred  paces  more  and 
her  heart  began  to  beat  the  faster,  and  the  moil  of  the  day's 
march  dwindled  before  the  influx  of  a  rosier  idyl.  Every 
step  towards  Pelleas  seemed  to  take  her  higher  up  the  turret 
stair  of  love  till  her  lips  should  meet  those  that  bent  at  last 
from  the  gloom  to  hers.  Pride  and  vexation  lay  fallen  far 
below,  dropped  incontinently  like  a  ragged  cloak  ;  a  more 
generous  passion  shone  out  like  cloth  of  gold ;  she  was  no 
longer  weary.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright,  her  face  full  of  a 
splendid  wistfulness,  as  she  neared  the  man  under  the  trees, 
looking  up  to  see  his  face. 

Twilight  lay  deep  violet  under  the  wooelshawe,  while 
horse  and  man  were  dim  and  impalpable,  great  shadows  of 
themselves.  Igraine  could  not  see  the  man's  face  for  the 
mask  over  the  mezail  of  his  helmet,  and  he  was  silent  as 
death.  She  was  quite  close  to  him  now  and  ready  to  speak 


192  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

his  name,  when  he  wheeled  suddenly,  looked  back  at  her, 
and  pointed  into  the  wood  with  his  long  spear.  She  ran 
forward  and  would  have  taken  hold  of  his  bridle,  but  he 
waved  her  back  and  slanted  his  spear  at  her  in  mute  warn- 
ing. Igraine,  heart-hungry,  could  hold  herself  no  longer. 

"  Man  —  man,  are  you  stone  ?  " 

He  rode  straight  ahead  into  the  night  of  the  trees  and 
said  never  a  word.  Igraine  drew  her  breath. 

«  Pelleas." 

"  Ah,  Igraine." 

The  voice  that  came  to  her  was  muffled  like  the  voice 
of  a  mourner,  yet  the  girl  thought  she  caught  the  old  deep 
tone  of  it  like  the  low  cry  of  the  wind. 

u  Why  do  you  vex  me  ?  " 

"  Follow  !  " 

"  Pelleas,  Pelleas,  I  am  no  nun  !  " 

"  Follow  !  " 

"  I  kept  this  truth  from  you  too  long." 

"  Follow  !  " 

"  Pelleas,  would  you  hurt  my  heart  more  ? " 

"Follow;   God  shall  make  all  plain  and  good." 

She  gave  in  with  a  half-sob,  and  bent  quietly  to  the 
man's  mood,  though  she  had  no  notion  what  he  purposed 
in  his  heart,  or  what  his  desires  were  in  mystifying  her 
thus.  No  doubt  it  would  be  well  in  the  end  if  Pelleas  bade 
her  follow  like  a  penitent  and  promised  ultimate  peace. 
At  least  he  had  not  turned  her  away,  and  she  trusted  him 
to  the  death.  He  was  a  strong,  deep-sensed  soul,  she  knew, 
and  her  deceiving  may  have  made  him  bitter  in  measure, 
and  not  easily  appeased.  In  this  queer  trial  of  endurance, 
this  tempting  of  her  temper,  she  thought  she  read  a  pen- 
ance laid  upon  her  by  the  man  for  the  way  she  had  used 
his  love. 

They  were  soon  far  into  the  wood,  with  the  western 
sky  dwindling  between  the  innumerable  pillars  of  the  trees. 
It  began  to  be  dark  and  utterly  silent  save  for  the  rustle  of 
the  dead  leaves  as  they  went,  and  the  shrilling  chafe  of  bridle 


GORLOIS  193 

or  scabbard,  or  the  snort  of  the  great  horse.  Wherever  the 
eye  turned  the  forest  piers  stood  straight  and  solemn  as  the 
columns  in  a  hypostyle  hall  in  some  Egyptian  temple.  The 
fretwork  of  boughs  roofed  them  in  with  hardly  a  glimmering 
through  of  the  darkening  sky  above.  There  was  a  pungent 
autumn  scent  on  the  air  that  seemed  to  rise  like  the  incense 
of  years  that'had  fallen  to  decay  on  the  brown  flooring  of 
the  place,  and  there  was  no  breath  or  vestige  of  a  wind. 

Presently  as  the  day  died  the  wood  went  black  as  the 
winter  night,  and  Igraine  kept  close  by  the  man,  with  his 
armour  giving  a  dull  gleam  now  and  again  to  guide  her. 
They  were  passing  up  what  seemed  to  be  a  great  arcade  cut 
through  the  very  heart  of  the  wood,  as  though  leading  to 
some  shrine  or  altar,  relic  of  Druid  days,  or  times  yet  more 
antique.  The  tunnel  ran  a  curved  course,  bending  deeper 
and  deeper  as  it  went  into  the  dense  horde  of  trees.  So  dark 
was  the  wood  that  it  was  possible  to  see  but  a  few  paces  in 
advance,  and  Igraine  wondered  how  the  man  kept  the  track. 
She  was  close  at  his  stirrup  now,  with  the  dark  mass  of  him 
and  his  horse  rising  above  her  like  a  statue  in  black  basalt. 
Though  he  never  spoke  to  her,  and  though  she  touched  no 
part  of  him,  his  horse,  or  his  harness,  she  felt  content  with 
the  queer  sense  of  trust  and  proximity  that  pervaded  her. 
There  was  magic  in  the  mere  companionship.  As  she  had 
humbled  her  will  to  Pelleas's  the  night  when  he  had  taken 
her  from  the  beech  tree  in  Andredswold,  so  now  in  like 
fashion  she  surrendered  pride  and  liberty,  and  became  a  child. 

Suddenly  the  trackway  straightened  out  into  a  great 
colonnade  that  ran  due  south  between  trees  of  yet  vaster 
girth.  Igraine  felt  the  man  rein  in  and  abide  motionless 
beside  her  as  she  held  to  the  stirrup  and  waited  for  what 
next  should  chance.  Silence  seemed  like  depths  of  black 
water  over  them,  and  they  could  hear  each  other  take 
breath  like  the  faint  flux  and  reflux  of  a  sea.  Igraine  saw 
the  man  lift  his  spear,  a  dim  streak  less  black  than  the  vault 
above,  and  hold  it  as  a  sign  for  her  to  listen.  Her  blood 
began  to  tingle  a  very  little.  There  was  something  far 


194  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

away  on  the  dead,  stagnant  air,  a  sort  of  swirl  of  sound,  shrill 
and  harmonious,  like  a  wind  playing  through  the  strings  of  a 
harp.  It  was  very  gradual,  very  impalpable.  As  the  volume 
of  it  grew  it  seemed  to  rush  nearer  like  a  wind,  to  swell  into 
a  swaying  plaintive  song  smitten  through  with  the  wounded 
cry  of  flutes.  It -gave  a  notion  of  wood-fays  dancing,  of 
whirling  wings  and  flitting  gossamer  moonbright  in  the 
shadows.  Igraine's  blood  seemed  to  spin  the  faster,  and 
her  hand  left  the  stirrup  and  touched  the  man's  thigh.  He 
gave  never  a  word  or  sign  in  the  dark.  She  spoke  to  him 
very  softly,  very  meekly. 

"  What  place  is  this,  Pelleas  ?  " 

She  saw  him  bend  slightly  in  the  saddle. 

u  It  is  called  the  Ghost  Forest,"  he  said. 

u  What  are  the  sounds  we  hear  ?  " 

«  Who  can  tell !  " 

Igraine  had  hardly  heard  him,  when  a  streak  of  phosphor 
light  flickered  among  the  trees,  coming  and  going  incessantly 
as  the  great  trunks  intervened.  It  neared  them  in  gradual 
fashion,  and  then  blazed  out  sudden  into  the  open  aisle,  a 
man  in  armour  riding  on  a  great  white  horse,  his  harness 
white  as  the  moon,  his  face  pale  and  wide-eyed,  his  hair 
like  a  mass  of  twisted  silver  wire.  A  misty  glow  haloed  him 
round,  and  though  he  rode  close  there  seemed  no  sound  at 
all  to  mark  his  passing.  As  he  had  come,  so  he  went,  with 
streaks  of  flickering  light  that  waxed  less  and  less  frequent 
till  they  died  in  the  dark,  and  left  the  place  empty  as  before. 
Igraine  thought  the  air  cold  when  he  had  gone. 

She  felt  the  black  horse  move  beside  her,  and  they  went 
on  as  before  into  the  night  of  the  trees.  The  noise  of  flute 
and  harp  that  had  ceased  awhile  bubbled  up  again  quite 
near,  so  that  it  was  no  longer  the  ghost  of  a  sound,  but 
noise  more  definite,  more  discrete.  It  had  a  queer  way  of 
dying  to  a  sighing  breath,  and  then  gathering  gradually  into 
an  ascending  burst  of  windy  melody.  Igraine  could  almost 
fancy  that  she  heard  the  sweep  of  wings,  the  soft  thrill  of 
silks  trailing  through  the  trees,  yet  the  man  on  the  horse 


GORLOIS  195 

said  never  a  word  as  they  went  on  like  a  pair  of  mutes  to  a 
grave. 

The  colonnade  opened  out  abruptly  on  a  great  circular 
clearing  in  the  wood  shut  in  by  crowded  trunks,  its  open 
vault  above  cut  by  a  dense  ring  of  foliage.  A  grey  light 
came  down  from  the  sky,  showing  great  stones  piled  one 
upon  another,  others  fallen  and  sunk  deep  in  rank  grass  and 
brambles.  The  man  halted  his  horse  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  clearing,  with  Igraine  beside  him,  watchful  for  what 
should  happen,  and  for  the  moment  when  Pelleas  should 
unbend. 

Hardly  had  she  looked  over  the  great  cromlechs,  black 
and  sinister  in  that  solitary  wilderness,  than  the  whole  wood 
about  them  seemed  dusted  suddenly  with  points  of  fire. 
North,  south,  east,  and  west  torches  and  cressets  came  jerk- 
ing redly  out  of  the  night,  flitting  behind  the  trees  in  a  wide 
circle,  gathering  nearer  and  nearer  without  a  sound.  They 
might  have  been  great  fireflies  playing  through  the  aisles 
and  ways,  or  goblin  lamps  carried  by  fairy  folk.  Igraine 
drew  very  close  to  the  man's  horse  for  comfort,  and  looked 
up  to  see  his  face,  but  found  it  dark  and  hidden.  Her  hand 
crept  up  past  the  horse's  neck,  rested  on  the  mane  a  moment, 
and  ventured  yet  further  to  meet  the  man's  hand,  where  it 
gripped  the  bridle.  For  a  minute  they  abode  thus  without 
a  sound,  watching  the  weird  torch-dance  in  the  wood. 

With  a  sudden  gibber  of  laughter  and  a  swirl  of  pipes  the 
throng  of  lights  seemed  to  seethe  to  the  very  margin  of  the 
clearing.  Queer  phantastic  shapes  showed  amid  the  trees, 
and  the  great  circle  grew  wide  with  light,  and  the  grey 
cromlechs  surprised  in  sleep  by  the  glare  and  piping.  At 
that  very  moment  Igraine  had  a  thought  of  some  one  look- 
ing deep  into  her  eyes,  of  a  will,  a  power,  streaming  in 
upon  her  like  sunlight  into  a  sleepy  pool.  Her  desire  went 
from  the  man  on  the  black  horse  into  the  square  shadow  of 
the  great  central  cromlech,  where  an  indefinite  influence 
seemed  to  lurk.  Looking  long  under  the  roofing  stone,  she 
grew  aware  of  a  tall  something  standing  there,  of  a  pair  of 


196  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

eyes  like  the  eyes  of  a  panther,  of  a  lean  white  hand  mov- 
ing in  the  shadows. 

The  eyes  under  the  cromlech  seemed  to  follow  Igraine 
like  fire,  and  to  burn  in  upon  her  a  foreign  influence. 
Rebellious  and  wondering,  she  stiffened  herself  against  a 
spiritual  combat  that  seemed  moving  upon  her  out  of  the 
dark.  She  could  have  smitten  the  eyes  that  stared  her 
down,  and  yet  the  magnetic  stupor  of  them  kindled  up 
things  in  her  heart  that  were  strange  and  newly  sensuous. 
She  felt  her  strength  sway  as  though  her  soul  were  being 
lifted  from  her,  and  she  was  warmed  from  top  to  toe  like 
one  who  has  taken  wine,  and  whose  being  swims  into  an 
idyllic  glorification  of  the  senses.  Again  her  desire  seemed 
turned  to  the  man  in  red  harness,  yet  when  she  looked  the 
saddle  was  empty,  and  the  horse  held  by  an  armed  servant, 
who  wore  a  wolfs  head  for  covering.  Still  mute  with  fear, 
desire,  and  wonder,  she  saw  a  tall  figure  move  into  the  full 
glare  of  the  torches,  a  figure  in  red  harness  with  a  shield  of 
green,  and  a  red  dragon  thereon,  and  with  head  unhelmed. 
The  armour  was  like  the  armour  of  Pelleas,  but  the  face 
was  the  face  of  the  man  Gorlois. 

And  now  the  eyes  under  the  shadow  of  the  cromlech  were 
full  and  strong  upon  Igraine.  Breathing  fast  with  a  hand 
at  her  throat  she  stepped  back  from  Gorlois  —  hesitated  — 
stood  still.  She  was  very  white,  and  her  eyes  were  big  and 
sightless  like  the  eyes  of  one  walking  in  a  dream.  For  all  her 
strength,  her  scorn,  and  the  tricking  of  her  heart,  she  was 
being  swept  like  a  cloud  into  the  embraces  of  the  sun. 
Reason,  power,  love,  sank  away  and  became  as  nothing.  A 
shudder  passed  over  her.  Presently  her  hands  dropped  limp 
as  broken  wings,  and  her  body  began  to  sway  like  a  tall 
lily  in  a  breeze.  A  gradual  stupor  saw  her  cataleptic ; 
she  stood  impotent,  played  upon  by  the  promptings  of 
another  soul. 

Gorlois  went  near  to  her  with  hands  outstretched,  stoop- 
ing to  look  into  her  face.  A  sudden  light  kindled  in  her 
eyes,  her  lips  parted,  and  new  life  flooded  red  into  her 


GORLOIS  197 

cheeks  as  at  the  beck  of  love.  She  bent  to  Gorlois  full  of  a 
gracious  eagerness,  a  wistful  desire  that  made  her  face  golden 
as  dawn.  Her  hand  sought  his,  while  the  shadowy  shape 
under  the  cromlech  watched  them  with  never-wavering 
eyes.  Gorlois's  arms  were  round  her  now  all  wreathed 
in  her  hair ;  her  face  was  turned  to  his ;  her  hands  were 
clasped  upon  his  neck.  Another  moment  and  he  had 
touched  her  lips  with  his. 

A  sound  of  flutes,  the  tinkling  of  a  bell,  and  a  solemn 
company  came  threading  from  the  trees,  guests,  acolytes, 
torch-bearers,  in  glittering  cloth  of  gold,  with  a  great  cruci- 
fix to  lead  them.  Gorlois  and  Igraine  were  hand  in  hand 
near  the  stone  that  hid  the  frame  of  Merlin.  A  priest  in  a 
gorgeous  cape  drew  near,  and  began  his  patter.  The  vows 
were  taken,  the  pact  sealed,  with  the  noise  of  a  chant  and 
music.  Thus  under  the  benedictions  of  the  great  trees, 
and  the  spell  of  Merlin,  Gorlois  and  Igraine  were  made 
man  and  wife. 


BOOK   III 

THE   WAR   IN    WALES 


AURELIUS  AMBROSIUS  the  king  was  dead,  taken  off  in  Win- 
chester by  the  hand  of  a  poisoner.  He  had  been  found 
stark  and  cold  in  his  great  carved  bed,  with  an  empty  wine- 
cup  beside  himvand  a  tress  of  black  hair  and  a  tress  of 
yellow  laid  twined  together  upon  his  lips.  The  signet-ring 
had  gone  from  his  finger,  and  by  the  bed  had  been  dis- 
covered a  woman's  embroidered  shoe  dropped  under  the 
folds  of  the  purple  quilt.  The  truth,  sinister  enough  in  its 
bare  suggestions,  was  glossed  over  by  the  court  folk  out  of 
honour  to  Aurelius,  and  of  love  to  Uther  the  king's  brother. 
It  was  told  to  the  country  how  an  Irish  monk  sent  by 
Pascentius,  dead  Vortigern's  son,  had  gained  audience  of  the 
king,  and  treacherously  poisoned  him  as  he  drank  wine  at 
supper.  The  tale  went  out  to  the  world,  and  was  believed 
of  many  with  a  sincere  and  honest  faith.  Yet  a  certain 
child-eyed  woman,  wandering  on  the  shores  of  Wales  for 
sight  of  Irish  ships,  could  have  spoken  more  of  the  truth 
had  she  so  dared. 

Uther  Pendragon  had  been  hailed  king  at  York  before 
the  bristling  spears  of  a  victorious  host.  But  a  week  before 
he  had  marched  against  the  heathen  on  the  Humber,  and 
overthrown  them  with  such  slaughter  as  had  not  been  seen 
in  Britain  since  the  days  when  Boadicea  smote  the  Romans. 
At  the  head  of  his  men  he  had  marched  south  in  a  snow- 
storm to  be  thundered  into  Winchester  as  king  and  con- 
queror. Twelve  maidens  of  noble  blood,  clad  in  ermine 
and  minever,  had  run  before  him  with  boughs  of  mistletoe 
and  bay.  Five  hundred  knights  had  walked  bareheaded, 


202  UTHER  AND   IGRAINE 

with  swords  drawn,  behind  his  horse.  The  city  had  glis- 
tened in  a  white  web  of  frosted  samite,  sparkled  over  by  the 
clear  visage  of  a  winter  sun. 

There  were  many  great  labours  ready  to  the  king's  hand. 
Britain  lay  bruised  by  the  onslaughts  of  the  barbarians  ;  her 
monks  had  been  slain,  her  churches  desecrated.  The  pirate 
ships  swept  the  seas,  and  poured  torch  and  sword  along  the 
sunny  shores  of  the  south.  Andredswold,  dark,  saturnine, 
mysterious,  alone  waved  them  back  with  the  sepulchral 
threatening  of  its  trees.  Yet,  for  all  the  burden  of  the 
kingdom  upon  his  broad  shoulders,  Uther  gave  his  first  care 
to  the  honouring  of  the  dead.  Aurelius  Ambrosius  was 
buried  with  great  pomp  of  churchmen  and  nobles  at  Stone- 
henge,  and  a  royal  mound  raised  above  the  tomb.  At 
Christmastide,  with  snow  upon  the  ground,  a  great  gathering 
was  made  at  Sarum  of  all  the  petty  kings,  princes,  and  nobles 
of  the  land.  Hither  came  Meliograunt,  king  of  Cornwall, 
and  Urience  of  the  land  of  Gore.  Fealty  was  sworn  with 
solemn  ordinance  to  Uther  Pendragon  the  king,  and  common 
league  bonded  against  the  heathen  and  the  whelps  of  the 
north. 

There  were  other  perils  brewing  for  Britain  over  the  sea. 
Pascentius,  dead  Vortigern's  son,  had  been  an  outcast  and 
a  wanderer  since  the  days  when  the  sons  of  Constantine 
had  sailed  from  Armorica  to  save  the  land  from  the  blind 
lust  and  treason  of  his  father.  He  had  been  a  drifting  fire 
beyond  the  seas,  an  intriguer,  a  sower  of  sedition,  a  man 
dangerous  alike  to  friend  and  foe.  Beaten  like  a  vulture 
from  the  coasts  of  Britain,  he  had  turned  with  treasonable 
hope  to  Ireland  and  its  king,  Gilomannius  the  Black,  a 
strenuous  potentate,  boasting  little  love  for  Ambrosius  the 
king.  Here,  in  Ireland,  a  kennel  of  sedition  had  arisen. 
Pascentius,  keen,  hungry  plotter,  had  toiled  at  the  task  of 
piling  enmity  against  those  who  had  destroyed  his  father 
amid  the  flames  of  Genorium.  A  great  league  arose,  a 
banding  of  the  barbarians  with  the  Irish  princes,  a  union 
of  the  Saxons  who  ravaged  Kent  with  the  wild  tribesmen 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  203 

over  the  northern  border.  Month  by  month  a  great  host 
gathered  on  the  Irish  coast.  Many  ships  came  from  the 
east  and  from  the  south.  Mid-winter  was  past  before  Gilo- 
mannius  embarked,  and,  setting  sail  with  a  fair  wind,  turned 
the  beaks  of  his  galleys  for  the  shores  of  Wales. 

Noise  of  the  gathering  storm  had  been  brought  to  Uther 
as  he  journed  through  the  southern  coasts,  rebuilding  the 
churches,  recovering  abbey  and  hermitage  from  their  deso- 
late ashes.  His  zeal  was  great  for  God,  and  his  love  of 
Britain  well-nigh  as  noble.  Warned  thus  in  due  season,  he 
marched  for  the  west,  calling  the  land  to  arms,  assigning 
for  the  gathering  of  the  host  Caerleon  upon  Usk,  that  fair 
city  bosomed  in  the  fulness  of  its  woods  and  pastures. 
Many  a  knight  had  answered  to  his  call ;  many  a  city  had. 
sent  out  her  companies  ;  the  high-roads  rang  with  the  cry  of 
steel  in  the  crisp  winter  weather. 

Duke  Gorlois  had  come  from  Cornwall  from  his  castle  of 
Tintagel,  bringing  many  knights  and  men-at-arms  by  sea, 
and  the  Lady  Igraine  his  wife,  in  a  great  galley  whose  bul- 
warks glistened  with  shields.  In  Caerleon  Gorlois  had  a 
house  built  of  white  stone,  set  upon  a  little  hill  in  the  centre 
of  the  city.  To  Caerleon  he  brought  this  golden  falcon  of 
a  woman,  this  untamable  thing  that  he  had  kept  prisoned 
in  the  high  towers  of  Tintagel.  He  mewed  her  up  like  a 
nun  in  his  house  of  white  stone,  so  that  no  man  should  see 
the  fairness  of  her  face.  She  was  wild  as  an  eyas  from  the 
woods, fierce  and  unapproachable,  and  sharp  of  claw.  Robbed 
of  her  liberty,  had  she  not  sought  to  take  her  own  life  with 
a  sword,  and  to  throw  herself  from  the  battlements  of  Tin- 
tagel? Gorlois  had  won  little  love  by  Merlin's  subtlety, 
and  he  feared  the  woman's  beauty  and  the  spell  of  her 
large  eyes. 

It  was  the  month  of  February  and  clear  crisp  weather. 
The  white  bellies  of  the  Irish  sails  had  shown  up  against 
the  grey  blue  stretch  of  the  sea,  a  white  multitude  of  canvas 
that  had  sent  the  herdsmen  hurrying  their  flocks  to  the 
mountains.  Horsemen  had  galloped  for  Caerleon,  and  the 


204  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

cry  of  war  went  up  over  wood  and  water.  Flames  licked 
the  night  sky.  From  Caerleon  to  St.  Davids,  from  St. 
Davids  to  Eryri,  the  red  blaze  of  beacon-fires  told  of  the 
ships  at  sea. 

The  cry  of  the  storm  arose  in  Caerleon,  and  the  tramp 
of  armed  men  sounded  all  day  in  her  streets.  The  great 
host  lodged  about  the  city  broke  camp  and  streamed  west- 
wards along  the  high-road  into  Wales.  Bugles  blew,  banners 
flapped,  masses  of  sullen  steel  rolled  away  into  purple  of 
the  winter  woods.  Bristling  spears  and  lines  of  skin-clad 
shields  vanished  into  the  west  like  the  waves  of  a  solemn 
sea.  On  the  walls  of  Caerleon  stood  many  women  and 
children  watching  the  host  march  for  the  west,  watching 
Uther  the  king  ride  out  with  his  great  company  of  knights 
and  nobles. 

At  the  casement  of  an  upper  room  in  Gorlois's  house  stood 
a  woman  looking  out  over  Caerleon  towards  the  sea.  She 
was  clad  in  a  mantle  of  furs,  and  in  a  tunic  of  purple  linked 
up  with  cord  of  gold.  A  tippet  of  white  fur  clasped  with 
a  brooch  of  amethysts  circled  her  throat.  Her  hair  was 
bound  up  in  a  net  of  fine  silk,  and  there  was  a  girdle  of  blue 
silk  about  her  loins,  and  an  enamelled  cross  upon  her  bosom. 
She  stood  with  her  elbows  resting  on  the  stone  sill,  and  her 
peevish  face  clasped  between  her  hands.  Her  eyes  looked 
very  large  and  lustrous  as  she  stared  out  wistfully  over  the 
city. 

In  the  great  court  below  horses  champed  the  bit  and 
struck  fire  from  the  ringing  flags.  Men  in  armour  clanged 
to  and  fro ;  rough  voices  cried  questions  and  counter-ques- 
tions ;  bridles  jingled  ;  spear-shafts  clattered  on  the  stones. 
Now  a  clarion  blared  as  a  troop  of  horse  thundered  by  up 
the  street,  their  armour  gleaming  dully  past  the  courtyard 
gate.  The  growl  of  war  hung  heavy  over  Caerleon,  a  grim 
sullen  sound  that  seemed  in  keeping  with  the  restless  chid- 
ing of  the  wind. 

Igraine's  face  was  hard  as  stone  as  she  watched  the  men 
moving  in  the  courtyard  below.  She  looked  older  than  of 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  2O$ 

yore,  whiter,  thinner  in  cheek  and  neck,  her  great  eyes 
staunch  though  sad  under  her  netted  hair.  Her  face  showed 
melancholy  mingled  with  a  constant  scorn  that  had  rarely 
found  expression  with  her  in  the  old  days,  save  within  the 
walls  of  Avangel.  She  looked  like  one  who  had  endured 
much,  suffered  much,  yet  lost  no  whit  of  pride  in  the  trial. 
Though  she  may  have  been  blemished  like  a  Greek  vase 
smitten  by  some  barbaric  sword,  she  was  her  self  still,  brave, 
headstrong,  resolute  as  ever.  The  shame  of  the  things  she 
had  suffered  had  perhaps  wiped  out  the  gentler  outlines  of 
her  character  and  left  her  more  stern,  more  wary,  less 
honest,  more  deep  in  her  endeavours.  There  was  no 
passive  humility  or  patience  about  her  soul,  and  she  was  the 
falcon  still,  though  caged  and  guarded  beyond  her  liberty. 

As  she  stood  at  the  casement  with  the  prophetic  murmur 
of  war  in  her  ears,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  life  surged  to 
her  feet  and  mocked  her  bondage  like  laughing  water.  The 
desire  of  liberty  abode  ever  with  her  even  to  the  welcoming 
of  stagnant  death.  She  thirsted  for  her  freedom,  plotted  for 
it,  dreamt  of  it  with  a  zeal  that  was  almost  ferocious.  Her 
life  seemed  a  speculation,  a  perpetual  aspiration  after  a  state 
that  still  eluded  her.  In  the  Avangel  days  she  had  been 
wild  and  petulant.  Then  Pelleas  had  come  through  the 
green  gloom  of  early  summer  to  soften  her  soul  and  inspire 
all  the  best  breath  of  the  woman  in  her.  Again,  thanks  to 
Gorlois,  she  had  fallen  with  the  usual  reaction  of  circum- 
stance upon  evil  times ;  the  change  had  discovered  the 
peevish  discontent  of  the  girl  hardened  into  the  strong  wil- 
fulness  of  the  woman. 

She  hated  Gorlois  with  a  fanatical  immensity  of  soul. 
When  the  man  was  near  her  she  felt  full  of  the  creeping 
nausea  of  a  great  loathing,  and  she  waxed  faint  with  hate 
at  the  veriest  touch  of  his  hands.  His  breath  seemed  to  her 
more  unsavoury  than  the  miasma  of  a  gutter,  and  it  needed 
but  the  sound  of  his  voice  to  bring  all  her  baser  passions 
braying  and  yelping  against  him.  He  had  driven  the  reli- 
gious instinct  out  of  her  heart,  and  she  was  in  revolt  against 


206  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

heaven  and  the  marriage  pact  forged  by  the  authority  of  the 
Church.  She  had  often  vowed  in  her  heart  that  she  could 
do  no  sin  against  Gorlois,  her  husband.  He  had  no  claim 
upon  her  conscience.  The  bondage  had  been  of  his  mak- 
ing ;  let  God  judge  her  if  she  scorned  his  honour. 

Standing  by  the  window  watching  the  knights  saddling 
for  their  lord's  sally,  she  heard  heavy  footsteps  mounting  up 
the  stairs,  and  the  ring  of  steel-tipped  shoes  along  the  gallery. 
The  footsteps  were  deliberate,  and  none  too  fast,  as  though 
the  man  walked  under  a  burden  of  thought.  ,  A  shadow 
seemed  to  pass  over  Igraine's  face.  She  slipped  from  the 
window,  ran  across  the  room,  shot  the  bolt  of  the  door, 
and  stood  listening.  A  hand  tried  the  latch.  She  knew 
well  enough  whose  fist  it  was  that  rattled  on  the  oaken 
panels.  Her  face  hardened  to  a  kind  of  cold  malevolence, 
and  she  laughed  noiselessly  in  her  sleeve. 

A  terse  summons  came  to  her  from  the  gallery. 

"  Wife,  we  ride  at  once." 

The  man  could  not  have  made  a  worse  beginning. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  tyranny  in  a  particular  word  that 
was  hardly  temperate.  Igraine  leant  against  the  door ;  she 
was  still  smiling  to  herself,  and  her  hands  fingered  the 
embroidered  tassel  of  the  latch. 

"  We  are  late  on  the  road  ;  I  can  make  no  tarrying." 

The  door  quivered  a  moment  as  though  shaken  by  a 
gusty  wind.  Everything  was  quiet  again,  and  Igraine 
could  hear  the  man  breathing.  Putting  her  mouth  to  the 
crack  between  post  and  hinge-board  she  laughed  stridently 
as  though  in  scorn. 

"  Igraine  !  " 

The  voice  was  half-imperative,  half-appealing. 

"  My  very  dear  lord  !  " 

"  Are  you  abed  ?  " 

"  No,  dear  lord." 

"  Open  to  me ;  I  would  kiss  your  lips  before  I  sally." 

"  You  have  never  kissed  me  these  many  days." 

"  True,  wife ;  is  it  fault  of  mine  ?  " 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  207 

"  Nor  shall  again,  dear  lord,  if  I  have  strength." 

She  heard  the  man  muttering  to  himself  a  moment,  but 
this  time  there  was  no  smiting  of  the  door,  no  fume  and 
tempest.  His  mood  seemed  more  temperate,  less  master- 
ful, as  though  he  were  half  heavy  at  heart. 

"  Igraine —  " 

"  Why  do  you  whimper  like  a  dog  ?  "  she  said ;  "  go,  get 
you  to  war.  What  are  you  to  me  ?  " 

"  When  will  you  learn  reason  ?  " 

"  When  you  are  dead,  sire." 

"  Perhaps  I  deserve  all  this."  . 

"  Are  you  so  much  a  penitent  ?  " 

Her  mockery  seemed  to  lift  Gorlois  to  a  higher  range  of 
passion,  and  there  was  great  bitterness  in  his  voice  as  he 
tossed  back  words  to  her  with  a  quick  kindling  of  desire. 

"  Woman,  I  have  been  hard  in  the  winning  of  you,  but, 
God  knows,  you  are  something  to  me." 

"  God  knows,  Gorlois,  I  hate  you." 

His  hand  shook  the  door. 

"  Let  me  in,  Igraine." 

u  Break  down  the  door ;  you  shall  come  at  me  no  other 
way." 

"  Woman,  woman,  I  am  a  fool ;  my  heart  smarts  at  leav- 
ing you." 

"  You  sound  almost  saintly." 

"  I  have  left  Brastias  in  charge  of  you." 

"  Thanks,  lord,  for  a  jailer." 

Igraine  drew  back  from  the  door  and  stood  at  her  full 
height  with  her  hands  crossed  upon  her  bosom.  She 
quivered  as  she  stood  with  the  intense  effort  of  her  hate. 
Gorlois  still  waited  without  the  door,  though  she  could  not 
hear  him  moving.  The  silence  seemed  like  the  deep  hush 
that  falls  between  the  blustering  stanzas  of  a  storm. 

"  Igraine  !  " 

It  was  a  hoarse  cry,  quick  and  querulous.  Igraine  had 
both  her  fists  to  her  chin  in  an  attitude  of  inward  effort,  as 
though  she  racked  herself  to  give  utterance  to  the  impla- 


208  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

cable  temper  of  her  scorn.  Her  face  had  a  queer  parched 
look.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  shrill  like  a  piping 
wind. 

"  Gorlois." 

«  Wife." 

"  Would  you  have  my  blessing  ?  " 

"  Give  it  me,  Igraine." 

"  Go  then,  and  look  not  to  me  for  comfort.  When  you 
are  in  battle,  and  the  swords  cry  on  your  shield,  I  shall  pray 
on  my  knees  that  you  may  get  your  death." 

Gorlois  gave  never  a  sound  as  he  stood  by  the.  barred 
door  with  his  hand  over  the  mezail  of  his  helmet.  It 
seemed  dark  and  gloomy  in  the  gallery,  and  the  staunch 
oak  fronted  him  like  fate.  His  eyes  were  full  of  a  dull 
light  as  he  turned  and  went  clanging  down  the  stairway 
with  slow,  heavy  tread.  His  sounding  footsteps  died  down 
into  the  din  of  arms  that  came  from  the  great  court. 
Igraine  ran  to  the  window  and  watched  him  and  his  men 
ride  out,  smiling  a  bleak  smile  as  the  last  mailed  figure 
gleamed  out  by  the  gate. 


II 

WHEN  Gorlois  and  his  knights  had  gone,  Igraine  unbarred 
the  door,  and  passed  down  the  narrow  stair  to  the  state 
chamber  of  the  house,  where  a  fire  was  burning.  It  was  a 
solemn  room,  shadowed  with  many  arches,  with  vaults 
inlaid  with  marble,  its  walls  painted  green  and  gold,  its 
glimmering  casements  lozenged  with  fine  glass.  Furs  were 
spread  upon  the  mosaic  floor;  painted  urns  held  flowers 
that  bloomed  in  the  mock  summer  of  the  room. 

Igraine  stood  and  warmed  herself  before  the  fire.  From 
an  altar-like  pillar  near  she  took  storax  and  galbanum  from 
brazen  bowls,  and  scattered  the  resinous  tears  upon  the 
flames.  A  pungent  fragrance  rose  up  into  her  nostrils. 
The  flicker  of  the  fire  played  upon  her  face,  and  set  a  lustre 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  209 

in  her  eyes.  It  was  winter  weather,  and  the  warmth  was 
welcome. 

The  refrain  of  her  talk  with  Gorlois  still  ran  at  fever 
heat  like  a  wild  song  through  her  b'rain.  She  was  stirred 
to  the  deeps  of  her  strong  soul.  For  Gorlois  she  had  no 
measure  of  pity.  He  was  a  rotten  tree  to  her,  a  slab  of 
granite,  anything  but  quick  flesh  and  blood  capable  of 
aspiration  and  desire.  She  hated  him  more  for  his  pleading 
than  for  his  tyranny,  fearing  to  be  pleased  by  one  she 
dreaded.  He  was  strenuous  and  obstinate.  She  knew  that 
it  would  be  great  joy  to  her  if  she  saw  his  face  no  more,  and 
if  his  body  crumbled  in  the  rain  on  some  bleak  coast  in  Wales. 

As  she  stood  by  the  fire  and  looked  into  it  with  ponder- 
ing eyes  she  heard  a  curtain  drawn  and  the  sound  of  a  foot- 
step on  the  threshold.  Turning  briskly,  like  one  accustomed 
to  suspicions,  she  saw  the  man  Brastias  in  the  doorway 
looking  at  her  half-furtively,  as  though  none  too  proud  of 
the  office  thrust  upon  him.  He  had  great  grey  eyes  and  a 
calm  face.  Bending  stiffly  to  Igraine  with  his  hand  over 
his  heart,  he  turned  aside  to  a  cabinet  by  the  wall,  took 
therefrom  an  illumined  scroll  of  legendary  tales,  and  sat 
down  on  a  bench  to  read,  as  though  he  had  no  other  busi- 
ness in  the  room. 

Igraine's  long  lip  curled.  She  knew  the  meaning  of  the 
man's  presence  there  shrewdly  enough.  Going  to  a  win- 
dow she  opened  the  casement  frame  and  looked  out  on  the 
winter  scene.  Usk  winding  silver  to  the  sea,  the  purple  roll 
of  the  bleak  bare  woods,  the  far  sea  itself  dying  a  sullen 
streak  into  a  sullen  sky.  It  was  dreary  enough,  and  yet  it 
suited  her  ;  she  could  have  welcomed  thunder  and  the  rend 
of  forked  fire  above  the  woods.  Thought  was  fierce  in  her 
with  the  wind  crying  about  the  house  like  a  wistful  voice, 
the  voice  of  days  long  dead. 

To  be  free  of  Gorlois  ! 

To  cast  off  her  present  self  like  a  rotten  cloak ! 

To  adventure  liberty,  though  the  peril  were  shrill  as  the 
wind  through  the  swaying  pines  on  the  hillside  ! 


210  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

To  deal  with  Brastias ! 

Now  Brastias  was  a  grave-faced  knight,  neither  young 
nor  old,  but  a  very  boy  in  the  matter  of  the  mock  wisdom 
of  the  world.  He  was  possessed  of  one  of  those  generous 
natures  that  looks  kindly  on  humanity  with  a  simple  opti- 
mism born  of  a  contented  conscience.  He  was  a  devout 
man,  a  soldier,  and  a  gentleman.  Moreover,  he  owned  a 
holy  reverence  for  women,  a  reverence  that  led  him  into  a 
somewhat  extravagant  belief  in  the  sincerity  of  their  truth 
and  virtue.  He  was  blessed  too  in  being  nothing  of  a 
cynic  in  his  conceptions  of  honour. 

Gorlois  knew  the  man  to  the  heart,  and  trusted  him,  a 
fact  well  proven  by  the  faith  imposed  upon  him  in  his 
wardenship  of  the  Lady  Igraine.  Brastias  hated  the  task 
as  much  as  he  hated  the  telling  of  a  lie.  There  are  some 
men  whose  whole  instinct  is  towards  truth.  They  are 
golden  souls,  often  too  easily  deceived  with  a  gross  dross 
that  makes  an  outward  show  of  kindred  colour. 

Brastias  was  no  stranger  to  Igraine,  for  he  had  served 
her  as  one  of  the  knights  of  the  guard  in  the  great  castle  of 
Tintagel.  He  was  a  man  who  could  look  into  a  woman's 
eyes  and  make  her  feel  instinctively  the  clear  honour  of  his 
soul.  There  was  nothing  of  the  flesh  about  Brastias.  And 
it  was  in  this  chivalrous  faith  of  his  that  Igraine  discovered 
a  credulity  that  might  make  him  prone  to  believe  a  certain 
profession  of  faith  that  was  taking  sudden  and  subtle  form 
within  her  mind.  Months  ago,  she  would  have  hesitated 
before  the  man's  grey  eyes.  But  feeling  herself  sinned 
against,  and  stirred  by  the*  shame  of  the  past,  she  found 
ample  justification  for  herself  in  the  lie  Gorlois  had  practised 
for  her  undoing. 

She  left  the  window,  and  went  and  stood  by  the  fire, 
with  her  back  to  the  man. 

"  Brastias,"  she  said,  quite  softly. 

The  man  looked  up  from  the  scroll,  and  seemed  ill  at 
ease. 

"  I  trust  your  duty  is  pleasant  to  you  ? " 


^        THE  WAR  IN  WALES  211 

Brastias's  eyelids  flickered  nervously,  and  he  cleared  his 
throat. 

"  May  the  Virgin  witness,"  he  said,  "  I  have  no  love  of 
the  task." 

"  My  Lord  Gorlois  trusts  you  ?  " 

11  He  has  said  so,  madame." 

"  And  am  I  not  his  wife  ? " 

Brastias  put  the  scroll  aside  with  a  constrained  delibera- 
tion. He  felt  himself  wholly  in  the  wrong,  as  he  always 
did  before  a  woman,  and  his  wit  ran  clumsily  on  such 
occasions.  It  had  needed  but  the  observation  of  a  child  to 
mark  the  gulf  between  Gorlois  and  his  wife.  Gorlois  had 
spoken  few  words  on  the  matter,  had  given  commands 
and  nothing  more.  Brastias  was  not  the  man  to  tamper 
officiously  with  the  confidences  of  others.  He  thought 
much,  said  little,  and  bided  quiet  for  Igraine  to  speak. 

She  stood  half-turned  towards  the  fire,  with  her  face  in 
profile,  and  her  hands  hanging  limply  at  her  side.  Looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  penitent,  she  spoke  with  a  certain 
unconscious  pathos,  as  though  she  touched  on  a  matter  that 
was  heavy  upon  her  heart. 

"  Brastias,  I  may  call  you  a  friend  ?  " 

"  I  trust  so,  madame." 

"Then  there  is  no  reason  for  me  to  be  backward  in 
speaking  of  the  truth  ?  " 

The  man  bowed  and  said  nothing. 

"  Come  then,  Brastias,  tell  me  honestly,  have  I  seemed  to 
you  like  a  woman  who  loved  her  husband  ?  " 

The  girl's  blue  eyes  were  staring  hard  into  the  man's  grey 
ones.  There  was  little  chance  of  prevarication  before  so 
blunt  a  question,  and  Brastias's  courtesy,  like  Balaam's  ass, 
refused  to  deny  the  scrutiny  of  truth.  Igraine  could  read 
the  man's  face  like  a  piece  of  blazened  parchment. 

41  Never  fear  to  be  frank,"  she  said  ;  "  your  belief  hangs  on 
your  face  like  an  alphabet,  and  that  shows  me  how  much 
you  know  of  a  woman's  heart." 

"  Pardon  me,  madame." 


212  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE      % 

"  Never  blush,  man,  you  would  have  said  that  I  had  as 
little  love  for  Gorlois  as  for  the  dirtiest  beggar  in  Caer- 
leon  ?  " 

Brastias  frowned  mildly  and  agreed  with  her,  remember- 
ing as  he  did  a  certain  wild  scene  on  ,the  battlements  of 
Tintagel. 

"  And  doubtless  you  would  say  that  it  pained  me  not  a 
whit  to  see  Gorlois  my  lord  ride  out  from  Caerleon  into  the 
wilds  of  Wales  ?  " 

There  was  such  reproach  in  her  voice  that  Brastias  fell 
into  confusion  before  her  eyes,  reddened,  and  began  to  excuse 
himself. 

"  Your  ladyship's  behaviour,"  he  said,  with  an  ingenuous 
look  and  an  intense  striving  after  propitiation, — "  your  lady- 
ship's behaviour  would  hardly  warrant  me  in  believing  that 
my  Lord  Gorlois  was  vastly  dear  to  you.  And,  pardon  me, 
a  woman  does  not  seek  to  run  away  from  her  husband." 

"  You  insinuate  —  " 

Brastias  felt  himself  in  the  mire,  and  groaned  in  spirit. 

"  Madame,  I  would  say  —  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand  you." 

"  Give  me  leave  —  " 

"  Not  another  word." 

Igraine  smiled  softly  to  herself,  turned  her  back  on 
Brastias  and  stared  long  into  the  fire.  The  man  stood  by, 
watching  her  with  a  humbled  look,  his  fingers  twisting  rest- 
lessly at  the  broidery  of  his  black  tunic.  Igraine  traced  out 
the  mosaic  patterns  on  the  floor  with  the  point  of  her  shoe. 

"  I  think  you  men  are  all  fools,"  she  said. 

Brastias's  silence  might  have  suggested  contradiction. 

"  Have  you  ever  loved  a  woman  ?  " 

The  man  shifted,  and  went  red  under  his  straight  fair 
hair.  His  eyes  took  a  dreamy  look. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  though  half-ashamed. 

Igraine  hung  her  head  and  sighed. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  growing  suddenly  shy  and  out  of 
countenance,  "  perhaps  you  may  have  learnt  the  lesson  of 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  213 

the  froward  heart,  the  heart  that  comes  by  love  when  it  is 
in  peril  of  great  loss." 

Brastias  drew  a  quick,  deep  breath. 

"  By  the  Virgin,  that's  true,"  he  said. 

Igraine  turned  to  the  fire  and  hid  her  face  from  the  man. 
There  was  a  pathetic  droop  about  her  shoulders,  a  listless 
curving  of  her  neck,  that  made  Brastias  picture  her  as 
burdened  with  some  immoderate  sorrow.  He  was  an  im- 
pressionable man,  not  in  any  amorous  sense,  but  in  the 
matter  of  sympathy  towards  his  fellows.  He  thought  he 
heard  a  catch  in  the  girl's  breathing  that  boded  tears.  Her 
hair  looked  very  soft  and  lustrous  as  it  curved  over  her  ears 
and  neck. 

"  Madame  Igraine." 

No  answer.     Brastias  went  a  step  nearer. 

"  Listen  to  me." 

A  slight  turning  of  the  head  in  response. 

"  What  ails  you,  madame  ?  " 

"  Never  trouble." 

"  I  beseech  you,  tell  me." 

The  man  was  quite  afire ;  his  face  looked  bright  and 
eager,  and  his  eyes  shone. 

"  Gorlois  has  gone  to  the  war." 

The  words  were  jerked  out  one  by  one. 

"  Madame  !  " 

«  War  —  and  death." 

"  Courage,  madame,  courage.  On  my  soul,  you  are  not 
going  to  say  —  " 

"  Brastias,  you  understand." 

«  Then  ?  " 

"  Man,  man,  don't  drag  it  out  of  me ;  don't  you  see  ? 
are  you  blind  ?  " 

Brastias  invoked  a  certain  saint  by  the  name  of  Chris- 
topher, and  straightway  emphasised  his  words  by  falling 
down  on  his  knees  beside  Igraine.  She  had  contrived  to 
conjure  up  tears  as  she  bent  over  the  fire.  Brastias  found 
one  of  her  hands  and  held  it. 


214  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

44  This  will  be  my  lord's  salvation." 

44  Think  you  so  ?  " 

"  On  my  soul,  my  dear  lady,  I  thank  our  Lord  Jesu 
from  my  heart.  For  I  know  my  Lord  Gorlois,  and  the 
bitterness  that  weighed  him  down,  though  he  spoke  little 
to  me  on  this  matter,  being  staunch  to  you,  and  to  his 
courtesy.  And  by  our  Lord's  Passion,  madame,  I  love 
peace  in  a  house,  and  quiet  looks,  and  words  like  laughing 
water,  for  there  is  never  a  home  where  temper  rules." 

u  Brastias,  you  shame  me." 

u  God  forbid,  dear  lady,  there's  no  gospel  vanity  in  my 
heart.  I  speak  but  out." 

The  man's  quaint  outburst  of  gladness  touched  Igraine's 
honesty  to  the  core,  but  she  had  no  thought  of  recantation, 
for  all  the  pricking  of  her  conscience.  She  passed  back  to 
the  open  window  and  leant  against  the  mullion,  while  Bras- 
tias rose  from  his  knees  and  followed  her. 

"  I  am  faint,"  she  said, "  and  the  fresh  wind  comforts  me." 

41  Courage,  madame  ;  Duke  Gorlois  rights  for  Britain  and 
the  Cross  ;  what  better  blessing  on  his  shield  ?  " 

Igraine  was  looking  out  toward  the  sea  and  the  grey 
curtain  of  the  sky  cut  in  places  by  dark  woods  and  the 
sweep  of  dull  green  hills.  There  was  a  wistful  droop  about 
her  figure  that  made  Brastias  molten  with  intent  to  comfort, 
and  dumb  with  words  of  sympathy  that  died  inarticulate  in 
his  throat.  He  stood  there,  a  man  muzzled  by  his  own 
sincerity,  bankrupt  of  a  syllable,  though  he  commanded  his 
wit  to  be  nimble  with  stentorian  cry  of  conscience.  He 
felt  hot  in  his  skin  and  vastly  stupid.  By  the  time  he  had 
lumbered  up  some  passable  fancy,  Igraine  had  turned  from 
the  window  with  a  quick  intelligence  kindling  in  her  eyes. 

44  Brastias." 

44  Madame." 

44  Listen  to  me,  I  have  come  by  a  plan." 

A  sudden  flood  of  sunlight  streamed  through  a  rent  in 
the  grey  canopy  of  clouds.  The  landscape  took  a  warmer 
tinge,  the  purple  of  the  woods  deepened.  Brastias  saw  the 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  21$ 

sudden  gleam  of  light  strike  on  Igraine's  hair.  Her  head 
was  thrown  back  upon  her  splendid  neck,  and  her  eyes 
seemed  large  with  love. 

u  I  will  show  Gorlois  how  I  love  him,"  she  said. 

Brastias's  face  was  still  hazed  in  conjecture. 

"  I  will  wipe  out  the  past." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  We  will  follow  Gorlois  to  the  war,  you  and  I,  Brastias, 
together.  What  say  you  to  that  ?  " 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  clear  grey  eyes,  and  with 
a  transient  immobility  of  feature  that  changed  swiftly  to  a 
glow  of  understanding.  The  words  had  gone  home  to  him 
like  a  trumpet-cry  ;  their  courage  warmed  him,  and  he  was 
carried  with  the  wind. 

"  A  great  hazard  —  and  a  noble,"  he  said,  with  a  flush  of 
colour;  "the  peril  is  on  my  neck,  and  yet  —  I'll  bear  it." 

Igraine's  face  blazed. 

"  Brastias,  you  will  go  with  me  ?  " 

"  By  my  sword,  to  the  death." 

u  Come  hither,  man  ;   I  must  kiss  your  forehead." 

Brastias  knelt  to  her  again  with  crossed  hands.  She  looked 
into  his  grey  eyes  and  touched  his  forehead  with  her  lips. 

"  Thus  I  salute  honour,"  she  said. 

"  My  lord's  lady  !  " 

"You  have  trusted  me." 

"  Else  had  I  been  ashamed." 

The  man  went  away  to  arm,  warm  at  heart  as  any  boy. 
Igraine  stood  a  moment  looking  into  the  fire  with  an 
enigmatic  calm  upon  her  face.  For  Brastias  she  felt  a 
throttled  pity,  an  impossible  admiration  that  only  troubled 
her.  Her  lust  for  liberty  bore  her  like  a  storm-wind,  and 
her  hate  of  Gorlois  made  her  iron  at  heart.  She  could  dare 
anything  to  fling  off  the  moral  bondage  that  cramped  and 
bound  her  like  a  net. 

While  Brastias  was  away  arming  and  ordering  horses, 
she  went  to  a  little  armoury  on  the  stairs  and  filched  away 
a  short  hauberk  and  a  sheathed  poniard.  She  wore  these 


2l6  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

under  a  gown  of  black  velvet  bound  with  a  silver  girdle,  and 
a  cloak  of  sables  hooded  and  lined  with  sky-blue  cloth.  She 
had  a  strange  joy  of  the  knife  at  her  girdle  as  she  passed 
down  the  stairway  to  the  court.  . 

A  few  silent  servants  gaped  at  her  as  she  passed  from  the 
house.  Brastias  came  out  to  her  in  armour.  In  the  court 
she  heard  the  cry  of  steel  bridles,  the  sparking  of  hoofs  on 
the  stones.  They  were  soon  mounted  and  away  under  the 
great  gate  and  free  of  Caerleon  in  the  decline  of  the  day. 
The  west  had  no  colour,  and  a  wind  pined  in  the  trees  as 
they  swept  into  the  twining  shadows  of  the  woods,  and  saw 
the  boughs  clutch  each  other  against  the  sullen  sky.  Soon 
night  came  in  a  black  cowl,  and  with  a  winter  wind  that 
roamed  the  woods  like  the  moan  of  a  prophecy.  Igraine, 
riding  with  her  bridle  linked  in  that  of  Brastias,  pressed  on 
for  the  west  with  a  mood  that  echoed  the  roar  of  the  trees. 


Ill 

A  MAN  in  black  armour,  a  lady  in  a  cloak  of  sables,  a  pine 
forest  under  a  winter  sky. 

Myriad  trunks  interminably  pillared,  grey-black  below, 
changing  to  red  beneath  the  canopy  of  boughs ;  patches  of 
grey-blue  sky  between  ;  a  floor  overgrown  with  whortle- 
berry and  heather,  and  streaked  seldom  by  the  sun.  Through 
the  tree-tops  the  veriest  sighing  of  a  wind,  a  sound  that 
crept  up  the  curling  galleries  like  the  softly-taken  breath 
of  a  sleeping  world.  Away  on  every  hand  oblivious  vistas 
black  under  multitudinous  green  spires. 

The  woman's  face  seemed  white  under  the  sweep  of  her 
sable  hood.  Its  expression  was  very  purposeful,  its  mouth 
firm  and  resolute,  its  air  indicative  of  a  deliberate  will.  Her 
eyes  stared  into  the  wood  over  her  horse's  head  with  a  con- 
stant care,  dropping  now  and  again  a  quick  side-glance  at 
the  man  in  black  armour  riding  on  her  flank.  She  spoke 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  2I/ 

seldom  to  him,  and  then  with  a  certain  assumption  of 
authority  that  seemed  to  trouble  his  equanimity  but  little. 
Often  she  would  lean  forward  in  the  saddle  as  though  to 
listen,  her  eyes  fixed,  her  mouth  decisive,  her  hand  hollowed 
at  her  ear  to  concavitate  some  sound  other  than  the  wind- 
song  of  the  trees.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  under  the 
spell  of  some  strong  emotion,  for  she  would  smile  and  frown 
by  turns  as  though  vexed  by  perpetual  alternatives  of  feeling. 

The  man  at  her  side  watched  with  his  grey  eyes  the  path 
curling  uphill  between  the  trees.  Having  his  own  inward 
exposition  of  the  woman's  mood,  he  contented  himself  wisely 
with  silence,  keeping  his  reflections  to  himself.  He  was 
not  a  man  who  blurted  commonplaces  when  lacking  the 
means  of  inspiration.  And  he  was  satisfied  with  the  fancy 
that  he  understood  completely  the  things  that  were  passing 
through  the  woman's  mind.  He  believed  her  troubled  by 
those  extreme  anxieties  of  the  heart  that  come  with  war  and 
the  handiwork  of  the  sword.  Perhaps  he  was  fortunate  in 
being  ignorant  of  the  truth. 

The  interminable  trees  seemed  to  vex  the  woman's  spirit 
as  their  trunks  crowded  the  winding  track  and  shut  the  pair 
in  as  with  a  never-ending  barrier.  But  for  an  occasional 
patch  of  heathland  or  scrub,  no  lengthy  vista  opened  up 
before  them.  Tree-boles  stood  everywhere  to  baulk  their 
vision,  silent  and  stiff  like  sullen  sentinels.  The  horses 
plodded  on.  Igraine's  impatience  could  be  read  upon  her 
face,  and  discovered  in  her  slighter  gestures.  It  was  the 
impatience  of  a  mind  at  war  within  itself,  a  mind  prone 
through  the  c^hafe  of  trouble  to  be  vexed  with  trifles ;  sore, 
sensitive,  and  hasty.  Brastias  watched  her,  pretending  to  be 
intent  the  while  on  the  path  that  wandered  away  into  the 
mazes  of  the  wood.  He  was  a  considerate  creature,  and  he 
suffered  her  petulance  with  a  placid  good-humour,  and  a 
certain  benevolence  that  was  the  outcome  of  pity. 

Igraine  jerked  her  bridle,  and  eyed  the  trees  as  though 
they  were  the  members  of  a  mob  thrusting  themselves 
between  her  and  her  purpose.  She  was  inclined  to  be 


2l8  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

unreasonable,  as  only  a  woman  can  be  on  occasions.  Brastias, 
calm-faced  and  debonair,  contented  himself  with  sympathy, 
and  refrained  from  reason  as  from  the  handling  of  a  whip. 

"  That  peasant  fellow  was  a  liar,"  he  said,  by  way  of 
being  companionable. 

"  Yes,  the  whelp." 

"  I'll  swear  we've  ridden  two  leagues,  not  one." 

"  The  fellow  should  have  a  stripe  for  every  furlong." 

"  Rough  justice,  madame." 

Igraine  laughed. 

"  If  justice  were  done  to  liars,"  she  said,  "  the  world 
would  be  hideless,  scourged  raw." 

Brastias  edged  his  horse  past  an  intruding  tree  and 
chuckled  amiably. 

u  It  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  so  much  beauty." 

«  Eh  !  " 

"  The  women  would  come  off  worst." 

Igraine  flashed  a  look  at  him. 

"  Balaam's  ass  spoke  the  truth,"  she  said. 

They  had  not  gone  another  furlong  when  Brastias  reined 
in  suddenly  and  stood  listening.  He  held  up  a  hand  to 
Igraine,  looking  at  her  with  prophetic  face,  his  black  armour 
lustreless  under  the  trees. 

«  Hark !  " 

Igraine  stared  into  his  eyes.  Neither  moved  a  muscle 
for  fully  a  minute. 

"  A  trumpet-cry  !  " 

Brastias  lowered  his  hand. 

"  From  the  host.     And  the  l  advance,'  by  the  sound  on't." 

"  Then  we  shall  be  out  of  the  woods  soon." 

"  Go  warily,  madame ;  it  would  be  poor  wisdom  to 
stumble  on  an  Irish  legion." 

"  Brastias,  I  would  not  miss  the  day  for  a  year  in  heaven." 

As  they  pushed  uphill  through  the  solemn  shadows  of 
the  forest,  a  sound  like  the  raging  of  a  wind  through  a  wood 
came  down  to  them  faintly  from  afar.  It  was  a  sullen 
sound,  deep  and  mysterious  as  the  hoarse  babel  of  the  sea, 


THE  WAR  IN-  WALES  219 

smitten  through  with  the  shrill  scream  of  trumpets  like  the 
cry  of  gulls  above  a  storm.  In  the  alleys  of  the  pine  forest 
it  was  still  as  death,  and  calm  beneath  the  beniscus  of  the 
tall  trees. 

Igraine  and  Brastias  looked  meaningly  at  each  other  as 
they  rode.  The  sound  needed  no  words  to  christen  it. 
The  two  under  the  trees  knew  that  they  heard  the  roar  of 
.host  breaking  upon  host,  the  cataractine  thunder  of  a  distant 
battle. 

Pushing  on  as  fast  as  the  forest  suffered,  the  din  became 
more  definite,  more  human,  more  sinister  in  detail.  It 
stirred  the  blood,  challenged  the  courage,  racked  conjecture 
with  the  infinite  chaos  it  portended.  Victory  and  despair 
were  trammelled  up  together  in  its  sullen  roar;  life  and 
death  seemed  to  swell  it  with  the  wind-sound  of  their  wings; 
it  was  stupendous,  sonorous,  chaotic,  a  tempest-cry  of  steel 
and  many  voices  merged  into  the  grand  underchant  of  war. 

Igraine's  face  kindled  to  the  sound  like  the  face  of  a  girl 
who  hears  her  lover's  lute  at  night  under  her  window. 
Blood  fled  to  her  brain  with  the  wild  strength  of  the  strain 
humming  like  a  wind  through  the  trees.  She  was  in  the 
mood  for  war ;  the  tragedy  of  it  solemnised  her  spirit,  and 
made  her  look  for  the  innumerable  flash  of  arms,  the  rolling 
march  of  a  multitude.  For  the  moment  it  was  life,  and  the 
glorious  strength  of  it ;  death  and  the  dust  were  hid  from 
sight. 

Yet  another  furlong  and  the  red  trunks  dwindled,  and 
the  sombre  boughs  fringed  great  tracts  of  blue,  and  to  the 
north  mountains  rose  up  dim  and  purple  under  an  umbrage 
of  clouds.  To  the  west  the  sea  appeared  solemn  and  foam- 
less,  set  with  pine-spired  aisles,  and  a  great  company  of 
ships  at  anchor.  Nigh  the  shore  the  grey  pile  of  a  walled 
town  stood  out  upon  green  meadows.  Igraine  and  the 
man  pushed  past  the  outlying  thickets,  and  drew  rein  upon 
a  slope  that  ran  gradually  down  from  them  like  the  great 
swell  of  a  sea. 

Tented  by  the  dome  of  the  sky  lay  a  natural  amphi- 


220  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

theatre,  shelving  towards  the  sea,  but  rising  in  the  east  by 
rolling  slopes  to  a  ridge  that  joined  the  mountains  with  the 
forest.  The  valley  was  a  medley  of  waste  land,  scrub, 
gorse,  and  thicket,  traversed  by  the  white  streak  of  a  road, 
and  closed  on  the  west  by  the  grey  walls  of  the  town  rising 
up  above  the  green.  It  was  a  wild  spot  enough.  However 
still  and  solitary  it  may  have  seemed  in  its  native  deserted- 
ness,  however  much  the  haunt  of  the  wolf  and  the  boar,  it 
seethed  now  like  a  cauldron  with  the  boiling  stir  of  battle. 

o 

Men  swarmed  through  scrub  and  thicket ;  masses  of  steel 
moved  hither  and  thither,  met,  mingled,  broke,  and  rallied. 
Wave  rushed  on  wave.  Bodies  of  horsemen  smoked  over 
the  open  with  flashing  of  many  colours  and  the  glittering 
pomp  of  mail,  to  roll  with  clanging  trumpets  into  some 
vortex  of  death.  The  whole  scene  was  one  shifting  mass 
of  steel  and  strife,  dust  and  disorder,  galloping  squadrons, 
rolling  spears,  rank  on  rank  of  shields  a-flicker  in  the  sun. 
And  from  this  whirlpool  of  humanity  rose  the  dull  grind- 
ing roar  of  war,  fierce,  stupendous,  clamorous,  grand. 

To  the  trained  eye  of  the  soldier  the  chaos  took  orderly 
and  intelligent  meaning,  and  Brastias  stood  in  his  stirrups 
and  pointed  out  to  Igraine  the  main  ordering  of  the  hosts. 
Uther  Pendragon  held  the  eastern  ridge  with  his  knights 
and  levies  ;  Gilomannius  and  Pascentius  thrust  up  at  him 
from  the  sea ;  while  the  valley  between  held  the  wreck  of 
the  countercharges  of  either  host,  and  formed  debatable 
ground  where  troop  ran  against  troop,  and  man  against 
man. 

The  masses  of  Uther's  army  swept  away  along  the  ridge, 
their  arms  glittering  over  the  green  slopes,  their  banners 
and  surcoats  colouring  the  height  into  a  terraced  garden  of 
war,  the  whole,  a  solemn  streak  of  gold  against  the  blue 
bosoms  of  the  hills.  To  the  north  stood  Meliograunt  with 
his  levies  from  Wales,  and  next  him  Duke  Eldol  and  King 
Nentres  headed  the  men  of  Flavia  Caesariensis.  South  of  all 
the  great  banner  of  Tintagel  showed  where  Gorlois  and  the 
southern  levies  reared  up  their  spears  like  a  larch-wood  in 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  221 

winter.  Brastias  pointed  them  all  out  to  the  girl  in  turn, 
keeping  keen  watch  the  while  on  the  shifting  mob  of  mail 
in  the  valley. 

Igraine,  stirred  by  the  scene,  urged  on  from  the  forest, 
and  the  knight  following  her,  they  crossed  some  open 
scrubland,  wound  through  a  thicket  of  pines,  and  stood  at 
gaze  under  the  boughs.  Igraine's  eyes  were  all  the  while 
turned  on  the  banner  of  Tintagel,  and  from  the  common 
mob  of  mailed  figures  she  could  isolate  a  knight  in  gilded 
harness  on  a  white  horse,  Gorlois,  her  husband.  The  mere 
sight  of  him  set  her  hate  blazing  in  her  heart,  and  seemed 
to  pageant  out  all  the  ills  she  had  suffered  at  his  hands. 
Her  feud  against  the  man  was  a  veritable  insanity,  a  species 
of  melancholia  that  wrapped  all  existence  in  the  morbid 
twilight  of  self-centred  bitterness.  As  she  looked  down 
upon  the  host  there  was  a  kind  of  overmastering  madness  of 
malice  on  her  face,  an  emotion  whose  very  intensity  paled 
her  to  the  lips,  and  made  her  eyes  hard  and  scintillant  as 
crystal.  She  was  discreet  for  all  her  violence  of  soul. 
Turning  to  Brastias,  who  was  scanning  the  valley  under  his 
hand,  she  pointed  to  the  banner  with  a  restless  eagerness  of 
manner  that  might  have  hinted  at  her  solicitude  for  Gorlois, 
her  lord. 

"  See  yonder,"  she  said,  "  is  not  that  the  Lord  Gorlois  on 
the  white  horse  by  yonder  standard  ?  " 

Brastias  turned  his  glance  thither,  considered  for  a 
moment,  and  then  agreed  decisively. 

"  Love  is  quick  of  eye,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"  Let  us  ride  down  nearer." 

"  I  care  not  for  the  hazard,  madame." 

"  Who  fears  at  such  a  season  ?  " 

"  By  my  sword,  madame,  not  your  servant ;  I  am  but 
careful  of  your  safety.'" 

"  Fear  for  me,  Brastias,  when  I  fear  for  myself." 

u  Methinks,  madame,  that  would  be  never." 

"  Brastias,  I  believe  you." 

Igraine's  courage  had  risen  to  too  high  an  imperiousness 


222  UTHER  AND   IGRAINE 

for  the  moment  to  brook  baffling  or  to  endure  restraint. 
She  had  been  lifted  out  of  herself,  as  it  were,  by  the  storm- 
cry  of  battle,  and  by  the  splendour  of  the  scene  spread  out 
before  her  eyes.  A  furlong  or  more  down  the  hillside  a 
little  hillock  stood  up  amid  a  few  wind-twisted  thorns, 
proffering  rare  vantage  for  outlook  over  wood  and  dale. 
She  was  away  like  a  flash,  and  several  lengths  ahead  before 
Brastias  had  roused  up,  put  spur  to  horse,  and  cantered  after 
her.  The  man  saw  the  glint  of  her  horse's  hinder  hoofs 
spurning  the  sod,  and  though  the  wind  whistled  about  his 
ears,  he  was  left  well  in  the  rear  for  all  his  spurring. 
Igraine,  with  her  hair  agleam  under  her  tossed-back  hood, 
and  her  cheeks  ruddied  by  the  wind,  headed  for  the  rising 
ground  at  a  gallop,  gained  it,  and  drew  rein  on  the  very 
verge  of  a  small  cliff  that  dropped  sheer  to  the  flat  below. 
The  hillock  was  like  a  natural  pulpit,  its  front  face  a 
perpendicular  some  twenty  feet  high,  while  its  hinder  slope 
tailed  off  to  merge  into  the  hillside.  Gorlois's  mailed 
masses  stood  but  a  hundred  paces  away,  and  Igraine  could 
see  him  clearly  in  his  gilded  harness  under  the  banner  of 
Tintagel. 

Brastias  galloped  up  to  her  with  a  mild  bluster  of 
expostulation. 

"  You  court  danger,  madame." 

"  What  if  I  do,  Brastias,  to  be  near  my  lord." 

"  Your  sanctity  lies  upon  my  conscience." 

"  I  take  all  such  care  from  you." 

"  Madame,  that  is  impossible  j  duty  is  duty  both  night 
and  day,  in  battle  and  in  peace ;  duty  bids  me  fear  for  my 
lord's  wife." 

Igraine  found  certain  logic  invincible  in  the  argument, 
and  made  good  use  of  it ;  she  meant  to  rule  Brastias  for  her 
own  ends. 

"  Fear,"  she  said  ;  "  I  forget  fear  when  I  am  nigh  Gorlois, 
my  husband ;  and  who  can  gainsay  me  the  right  of  watch- 
ing over  him  ?  I  forget  fear  when  I  think  of  Britain,  the 
king,  and  my  lord,  and  had  I  a  hundred  lives  I  could  cast 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  223 

them  down  to  help  to  break  the  heathen,  and  serve  my 
country." 

u  Amen,"  said  Brastias,  signing  the  cross  upon  his  breast. 

Sterner  interests  quashed  any  further  polite  bickerings 
that  might  have  risen  from  Igraine's  pride  of  purpose,  for 
Brastias,  with  the  instinct  of  a  soldier,  marked  some  large 
development  in  the  struggle  that  had  been  passing  in  the 
valley  below  them.  The  scattered  lines  of  horse  and  foot 
that  had  been  thrown  forward  by  Uther  to  try  the  strength 
and  spirit  of  the  Irish  host,  were  falling  back  sullenly  up- 
hill before  the  masses  of  attack  poured  up  from  the  flats  by 
Gilomannius  the  king.  The  whole  battle  had  shifted  to 
the  east.  Bodies  of  horse  were  spurring  uphill,  driving  in 
Uther's  men,  cutting  down  stragglers,  harrowing  the  slopes 
for  the  solid  march  of  the  black  columns  of  foot  that  were 
creeping  up  between  the  thickets,  winding  like  giant  dragons 
amid  furze  and  scrub.  It  was  a  grand  sight  enough,  the 
advance  of  a  great  host,  a  rocking  sea  of  spears  pouring  up 
in  the  lull  that  had  fallen  over  the  valley  as  though  the 
battle  took  breath  and  waited.  Uther's  men  kept  their 
ground  upon  the  ridge,  watching  in  silence  the  advance  of 
Gilomannius's  chivalry.  Only  a  brief  wild  cry  of  trumpets 
betokened  the  gathering  of  the  waves  of  war. 

Even  at  this  juncture  Brastias  racked  his  wit  and  courtesy 
to  persuade  Gorlois's  lady  to  fall  back  and  watch  from  the 
shelter  of  the  woods.  He  pointed  out  her  peril  to  Igraine, 
besought,  argued,  cajoled,  threatened.  All  he  gained  was  a 
blunt  but  half-srniling  declaration  from  the  woman  that  she 
would  hold  to  her  post  on  the  hillock  till  the  battle  was  over, 
or  some  mischance  drove  her  from  the  place.  Brastias 
caught  her  bridle,  spurred  round,  and  tried  to  drag  her  back 
by  main  force,  but  she  was  out  of  the  saddle  instanter,  and 
obstinate  as  ever.  In  the  end  the  man  capitulated,  and 
gave  his  concern  to  the  fortunes  of  war. 

The  sudden  uproar  that  sounded  out  along  the  hillside 
made  mere  individual  need  dull  and  impossible  for  the 
moment.  The  shock  of  the  joining  of  the  hosts  had  come 


224  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

like  the  fall  of  snow  from  a  mountain  —  a  sound  sweeping 
down  the  valley,  echoing  among  the  silent  fastnesses  of  the 
hills.  Men  had  come  pike  to  pike,  shield  to  shield,  upon 
the  ridge.  Mass  rushed  upon  mass,  billow  upon  billow. 
From  the  mountains  to  the  forest  the  sweat  and  thunder  of 
strife  rolled  up  from  the  long  line  of  leaping  steel,  from  the 
living  barrier,  steady  as  a  cliff.  It  was  one  of  the  many 
Marathons  of  the  world  where  barbarism  clawed  at  the 
antique  fabric  of  the  past. 

Igraine's  glance  was  stayed  on  Gorlois  and  the  southern 
levies  about  the  banner  of  Tintagel.  Her  hate  surged  up 
the  green  slope  with  the  onrush  of  the  Irish  horde,  and 
brandished  on  the  charge  in  spirit  towards  the  tall  figure  in 
the  harness  of  gold.  She  saw  Gorlois  in  the  press  smiting 
right  and  left  with  the  long  sweep  of  his  sword.  In  her 
thirst  for  his  destruction  she  grudged  him  strength,  harness, 
sword,  the  very  shield  he  bore.  She  was  glad  of  his  courage, 
for  such  would  militate  against  him.  Moment  by  moment 
her  desire  honoured  him  with  death  as  she  thought  him 
doomed  to  fall  beneath  the  surge  of  steel. 

A  sudden  shout  from  Brastias  brought  her  stare  from  this 
chaos  of  swords.  The  man  was  standing  in  his  stirrups, 
and  pointing  to  the  west  with  his  face  dead  white  and  his 
mouth  agape. 

"  By  God,  look  !  " 

Truth  to  tell,  there  was  little  need  of  the  warning.  A 
dull  rumble  of  hoofs  came  up  like  thunder  above  the  shriller 
din  around.  Igraine,  looking  to  the  west,  saw  a  black  mass 
of  horsemen  at  the  gallop,  swaying,  surging,  rocking  uphill 
full  for  Gorlois's  flank.  The  sight  numbed  her  reason  for 
the  moment.  She  was  still  as  stone  as  the  column  swept 
past  the  very  foot  of  the  hillock  —  a  flood  of  steel  —  and 
plunged  headlong  upon  Gorlois's  lines,  hewing  and  trampling 
to  the  very  banner  of  Tintagel.  An  oath  from  Brastias 
made  her  turn  and  look  at  him.  He  had  his  hand  on  his 
sword,  and  his  face  was  twisted  into  a  snarl  of  wrath  and 
shame  as  he  stood  in  his  stirrups  and  watched  the  fight. 


THE   WAR   IN  WALES  22$ 

"  My  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  my  God  !  they  run." 

It  was  palpable  enough  that  the  southern  line  was  break- 
ing and  crumbling  ominously  before  the  rush  of  Giloman- 
nius's  knights.  Little  bunches  of  men  were  breaking 
away  from  the  main  mass  like  smoke,  and  falling  back  over 
the  ridge.  Igraine  guessed  at  Brastias's  pride  and  fury,  saw 
her  chance  of  liberty,  and  took  it.  She  set  up  a  shrill  cry 
that  stirred  his  courage  like  a  trumpet-cry. 

"  My  Lord,  my  Lord  Gorlois,  Brastias,  what  of  him  ?  " 

The  man's  sword  had  flashed  out. 

"  Send  me  to  death,  lady,  only  to  strike  a  blow  for 
Britain." 

Igraine  spread  her  hands  to  him  like  a  Madonna,  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  air.  Brastias  lifted  up  his 
drawn  sword,  kissed  it,  and  saluted  her  with  the  look  of  a 
hero.  Then  he  wheeled  his  horse,  plunged  down  from  the 
hillock,  and  rode  full  gallop  into  the  battle.  Igraine  soon 
•lost  sight  of  his  black  harness  in  the  melee,  and  since  he  met 
his  death  there,  she  saw  Brastias  alive  no  more. 

Despite  the  grim  uproar  of  the  overthrow,  despite  the 
taunts  of  a  patriot  pride,  there  was  an  under-current  of  glad- 
ness through  her  thought  as  she  watched  Gorlois's  men 
giving  ground  upon  the  ridge.  Her  lord's  shame  was  her 
gratification.  To  such  a  pitch  of  passion  was  she  tuned  that 
she  could  find  laughter  for  the  occasion,  and  a  shrill  cry  of 
joy  that  startled  even  her  own  ears  when  the  banner  of 
Tintagel  quivered  and  went  down  into  the  dust.  Men 
were  falling  like  leaves  in  autumn,  and  the  southern  wing 
of  Uther's  host  seemed  but  a  rabble  —  trampled,  overridden, 
herded,  and  smitten  over  the  ridge.  Everywhere  the  swords 
and  spears  of  Gilomannius's  knights  and  gallowglasses  spread 
rout  and  panic,  while  the  wavering  mass  gave  ground,  rallied, 
gave  again,  and  streamed  away  in  flight  over  the  hillside. 
She  could  see  no  sign  of  Gorlois,  and  with  a  whimper  of 
hate  the  strong  doubt  of  his  escaping  the  slaughter  took  hold 
on  her  heart,  and  found  ready  welcome  there.  She  was  rid 
of  Brastias  —  good  fellow  that  he  was  —  and  though  she 


226  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

honoured  him,  she  loved  liberty  better.  Liberty  enough  ! 
Gorlois  her  lord  had  been  slain.  Such  were  her  reflections 
for  the  moment. 

Pendragon's  host  seemed  threatened  with  overthrow. 
The  southern  wing  had  been  driven  off  the  field  by  a  charge 
of  horse  ;  Gilomannius  held  the  southern  portion  of  the 
ridge,  and  pressed  hard  on  Meliograunt,  both  flank  and  face. 
The  imminent  need  of  Britain  was  plain  enough  even  to 
Igraine,  yet  a  sense  of  calm  and  liberty  had  come  upon  her 
like  the  song  of  birds  or  the  gush  of  green  in  springtide. 
Even  her  patriotism  seemed  dim  and  unreal  for  the  moment 
before  the  treasonable  gratitude  that  watched  the  overthrow 
of  Gorlois's  arms.  She  was  alone  at  last,  solitary  among 
thousands,  able  after  the  bitterness  of  past  months  to  pluck 
peace  from  the  very  carnage  of  battle.  Trouble  had  so 
wrought  upon  her  mind  that  it  seemed  a  negation  of  all 
probable  and  natural  sentiment,  a  contradiction  of  the  ethical 
principles  of  sense. 

The  day  was  fast  passing,  and  the  grand  fires  of  a  winter 
sunset  were  rolling  all  the  caverns  of  the  west  into  a  blaze 
of  gold  and  scarlet.  The  pine  forest,  black  and  inscrutable 
as  night,  stood  with  its  spines  like  ebony  to  the  fringe  of 
the  west,  while  the  slanting  light  lit  the  glimmering  masses 
of  steel  on  hill  and  valley  with  a  web  of  gold.  To  the 
north  the  mountains  towered  in  a  mystery  of  purple,  a 
gleam  of  amber  transient  on  their  peaks. 

Sudden  and  shrill  came  a  cry  of  trumpets  from  the  hills, 
a  sinister  sound  that  seemed  to  issue  in  the  climax  of  the 
last  phase  of  a  tragedy.  Igraine's  eyes  were  turned  north- 
wards to  the  green  slopes  of  the  higher  ground  where  the 
great  banner  of  the  Golden  Dragon  had  flapped  over  Uther 
the  King.  Here  a  great  company  of  knights,  the  flower  of 
the  host,  had  stood  inactive  throughout  the  day.  With  a 
cry  of  trumpets  this  splendid  company  had  moved  down  to 
charge  the  masses  of  Gilomannius's  men,  who  now  filled  the 
shallow  valley  east  of  the  ridge,  and  threatened  King 
Meliograunt  and  the  whole  host  with  overthrow.  Uther 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  22/ 

had  ridden  out  to  lead  the  charge  with  his  own  sword.  It 
was  one  of  those  perilous  hours  when  some  great  deed  was 
needed  to  grapple  victory  from  defeat. 

The  rest  of  the  scene  seemed  blotted  out  as  Igraine 
watched  from  her  hillock  the  glittering  mass  rolling  down- 
hill with  the  evening  sun  striking  flame  from  its  thousand 
points  of  steel.  On  over  the  green  slopes,  past  the  pavilions 
of  the  camp,  it  gathered  like  a  wave  lifting  its  crest  against 
a  rock,  on  towards  the  swarm  of  mea  squandered  in  pursuit 
of  Gorlois's  broken  line,  on  to  where  Gilomannius  formed 
his  knights  for  the  charge.  The  green  space  dwindled  and 
dwindled  with  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  nearing  gallop. 
Igraine  saw  the  rabble  of  Saxons,  light-armed  kerns  and 
Irish  gallowglasses,  split  and  crack  like  a  crumbling  wall. 
For  a  short  breath  the  black  mass  held,  with  Uther's  storm 
of  mail  cleaving  cracks  and  wedges  in  it  —  streaks  of  tawny 
colour  like  lava  through  the  vineyards  and  gardens  of  a 
village.  Then  as  by  magic  the  whole  mass  seemed  to 
deliquesce,  to  melt,  to  become  as  mist.  All  visible  was  a 
thunderstorm  of  horsemen  tearing  like  wind  through  a  film 
of  rain  with  scattering  fringes  of  cloud  scudding  swiftly  to 
the  west.  The  knights  had  passed  the  valley  and  were 
riding  up  the  slope,  hewing,  trampling,  crushing,  as  they 
came.  Gilomannius's  columns  that  had  pushed  Gorlois's 
men  into  rout  had  become  a  rabble  in  turn  —  wrecked,  scat- 
tered to  the  wind,  trodden  down  in  blood  and  dust.  They 
were  streaming  away  in  flight  over  the  ridge,  scampering 
for  scrub  and  thicket,  no  lust  in  them  save  the  lust  of  life. 
Igraine  saw  them  racing  past  on  every  quarter,  a  blood- 
specked,  dust-covered  herd,  their  hairy  faces  panting  for  the 
west  and  the  ships  on  the  beach.  Not  a  hundred  paces 
away  came  the  line  of  trampling  hoofs  and  swinging  swords, 
a  demoniac  whirlwind  of  iron  wrath  that  hunted,  slew,  and 
gave  no  quarter. 

Beyond  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  and  all  about  the 
hillock  where  Igraine  stood,  the  glittering  horde  of  knights 
came  to  a  halt  with  a  great  shout  of  triumph.  Right 


228  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

beneath  Igraine  and  the  straight  face  of  the  hillock  a  man 
in  red  armour  on  a  black  horse,  with  a  golden  dragon  on 
his  helmet,  stood  out  some  paces  before  the  ranks  of  the 
splendid  company.  A  great  cry  rolled  up,  a  forest  of 
swords  shook  in  the  sun.  The  knight  on  the  black  horse 
stood  in  his  stirrups,  and  with  sword  and  helmet  upstretched 
in  either  hand  lifted  his  face  to  the  red  triumph  fire  of  the 
west.  Igraine  knew  him  —  Pelleas,  Uther,  the  King. 


IV 

THE  sun  had  rolled  back  between  the  pylons  of  the  west. 
Night  was  in  the  sky,  night  in  her  winter  austerity  —  keen, 
clear,  aglitter  with  stars  as  though  her  robe  were  spangled 
with  cosmic  frost.  The  mountains'  rugged  heads  were 
dark  to  the  heavens,  and  the  sea  lay  a  faintly  glimmering 
plain  open  to  the  beck  of  the  moon. 

The  Irish  host  had  broken  and  fled  at  sunset  before 
Uther's  charge  and  the  streaming  spears  of  Eldol  and  King 
Nentres.  The  green  meadows,  the  wild  scrubland,  had  been 
chequered  over  with  the  black  swarm  of  the  flying  soldiery; 
the  whole  valley  had  surged  with  swords  and  the  sound  of 
the  slaughter.  By  the  grey  walls  of  the  town  it  had  be- 
leaguered, the  driven  host  had  turned  and  rallied  in  despair 
to  stave  ofF  to  the  last  the  implacable  doom  that  poured 
down  from  the  hills.  It  was  the  vain  effort  of  a  desperate 
cause.  Broken  and  scattered  like  dust  along  a  highway, 
there  had  been  no  hope  left  them  but  their  ships.  The 
battle  had  ended  in  the  very  foam  of  the  breaking  waves. 
Crag  and  cliff,  rock-citadel  and  yellow  sand,  had  had  their 
meed  of  blood  and  the  shrill  sound  of  the  sword.  The 
great  ships  had  saved  but  a  remnant,  and  had  put  out  to 
sea  in  the  dusk,  their  white  sails  like  huge  ghosts  treading 
the  swell  of  the  twilight  waters.  Yet  with  night  there  had 
come  no  ceasing  of  the  carnage.  Despair  had  turned  to 


THE  WAR  IN"  WALES  229 

front  victory  ;  Irish  gallowglass  and  heathen  churl,  forsaken 
by  their  ships  and  hemmed  in  by  sea  and  sword,  had  fought 
on  to  the  end,  rinding  and  knowing  no  mercy.  Gilomannius 
the  King  and  Pascentius  were  dead,  and  the  blood  of  inva- 
sion poured  out  like  water. 

Now  it  was  night,  and  in  the  clear  passionless  light  of 
the  moon  a  figure  in  a  cloak  of  sables  moved  towards  the 
mound  where  Gorlois  of  Cornwall  had  flown  his  banner 
early  in  the  day's  battle.  Everywhere  the  dead  lay  piled 
like  sheaves  in  a  cornfield,  their  harness  glinting  with  a 
ghastly  lustre  to  the  moon  —  piled  in  all  attitudes  and 
postures,  staring  blankly  with  white  faces  to  the  sky,  or 
prone  with  their  lips  in  blood,  contorted,  twisted,  clutching 
at  throat  and  weapon,  mouths  agape  or  clenched  into  a  grin, 
man  piled  on  man,  barbarian  upon  Briton.  Dark  quags 
chequered  the  grass  with  the  sickly  odour  of  shed  blood, 
and  sword  and  spear,  shield  and  helmet,  flickered  impotently 
among  the  dead. 

Igraine  went  among  the  bodies  like  a  black  monk  seeking 
some  still  quick  enough  to  be  shriven  before  their  souls 
took  flight  from  the  riven  clay.  Her  cloak  was  gathered 
jealously  about  her  as  she  threaded  her  way  among  the 
huddled  figures,  peering  under  helmets,  scanning  harness 
narrowly  in  her  death-inspired  quest.  Casting  hither  and 
thither  in  the  moonlight,  she  came  to  a  tangled  bank  of 
furze,  and  beyond  it  a  low  hillock  that  seemed  piled  and 
paved  with  the  bodies  of  the  slain.  Here  had  stood  the 
banner  of  Tintagel,  and  here  the  prowess  of  Gorlois's  house- 
hold knights  had  fallen  before  the  charge  of  Gilomannius's 
chivalry.  Igraine  saw  the  medley  of  mail,  the  dead  horses, 
jumbled  figures,  wreck  of  shield  and  spear  rising  out  above 
her  in  the  moonlight,  cloaked  with  a  silence  grim  and 
irrefutable,  as  though  Death  himself  sat  sentinel  on  the 
pyramid  of  carnage.  Half  shuddering  at  the  sight  like  an 
aspen,  for  all  the  intent  that  was  in  her  heart,  she  drew 
near,  determined  and  resolved  to  search  the  mound.  Com- 
pelled to  climb  over  the  dead  and  to  set  her  foot  on  the 


230  VTHER  AND  IGRAlNE 

breasts  and  shoulders  of  the  slain,  her  tread  lighted  more 
than  once  on  a  body  that  squirmed  like  a  dying  snake. 
Strong  to  do  the  uttermost  after  that  day  of  revelation  she 
struggled  on,  loathing  the  task,  her  shoes  clammy  with  the 
blood-sweat  of  death.  On  the  summit  of  the  mound  she 
came  upon  Gorlois's  white  horse  lying  dead  by  the  wreath- 
ing folds  of  the  fallen  banner  of  his  house. 

A  whimper  of  joy  came  up  into  Igraine's  heart.  Sinister 
as  the  sign  seemed,  she  was  soon  searching  the  mound  with 
an  alert  desire  in  her  eyes  that  prophesied  no  vestige  of 
pity  for  the  thing  for  which  she  sought.  Hunt  as  she 
would,  and  she  was  marvellously  patient  over  the  gruesome 
business,  no  glint  of  Gorlois's  golden  harness  flattered  her 
hate  as  she  searched  the  mound.  Many  a  good  knight  lay 
there,  some  that  she  had  known  at  Tintagel,  and  hated 
because  they  served  her  husband,  but  of  Gorlois  she  found 
no  trace.  As  a  last  hope,  she  dragged  aside  the  great 
standard  and  found  a  dead  man  there  sheeted  in  its  folds,  a 
man  in  black  armour  with  his  face  to  the  sky  —  Brastias, 
who  had  ridden  with  her  from  Caerleon. 

She  stood  a  moment  looking  down  at  him  with  a  sudden 
feeling  of  awe  such  as  had  not  come  upon  her  through  all 
that  day.  A  white  face  lay  turned  to  the  sky,  —  a  face  that 
had  looked  kindly  into  hers  with  a  level  trust,  —  and  smiled 
with  a  wealth  of  manly  sympathy.  It  was  a  simple  thing 
enough,  nothing  but  one  death  among  many  thousands,  but 
it  touched  Igraine  to  the  core,  and  made  her  ashamed  of  the 
lies  she  had  given  him.  She  found  herself  wondering  like 
a  child  whether  Brastias  was  in  heaven,  and  whether  he 
watched  her  and  her  thoughts  with  his  calm  grey  eyes. 
The  notion  disquieted  her.  She  bent  down,  took  his  naked 
sword  from  his  hand,  and  shrouded  him  again  in  the  gorgeous 
blazonry  of  the  flag  for  which  he  had  died,  and  so  left 
him  with  a  sigh. 

As  she  climbed  back  again  from  the  mound,  a  gashed 
and  clotted  face  heaved  up  and  stared  at  her  from  a  heap  of 
slain.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  struggled  up  on 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  231 

his  hands  to  look  at  her  with  mouth  agape,  dazed  after  a 
sudden  waking  from  the  stupor  of  a  swoon.  For  a  moment 
in  the  moonlight  she  thought  it  was  Gorlois  by  certain 
likeness  of  feature,  but  discovered  her  error  when  the  man 
spoke  to  her  in  gibberish  she  did  not  understand.  He 
began  to  crawl  towards  her  with  a  certain  air  of  menace 
that  made  her  start  back  and  rear  up  the  sword  she  had 
taken  from  dead  Brastias.  The  threat  of  steel  proved 
needless  enough,  for  the  man  dropped  again  with  a  wet 
groan,  and  seemed  dead  when  she  went  and  bent  over  him 
with  thoughts  of  succour. 

Passing  back  again  to  her  hillock,  she  stood  there  brooding 
and  looking  out  towards  the  west.  A  great  bell  in  the 
town  by  the  sea  was  pulsing  heavily  as  though  for  the  dead, 
and  there  were  many  cressets  flaring  on  the  walls,  and 
torches  going  to  and  fro  in  the  meadows.  The  sound  of  a 
triumph  hymn  chanted  by  hundreds  of  deep  voices  floated 
up  like  a  prayer  from  the  western  meadows. 

At  the  sound  Igraine's  eyes  were  strangely  full  of  tears. 
By  some  strange  echoing  of  the  mind  the  idyls  of  past  days 
woke  like  the  song  of  birds  after  a  storm  of  rain.  Clear  in 
the  dusk  she  seemed  to  see  the  red  figure  on  the  black  horse, 
his  face  lit  like  a  god's  by  the  slanting  light  from  the  west 
as  he  stretched  his  sword  to  heaven.  Again  the  scene 
changed,  and  she  saw  him  riding  through  the  flowering 
meads  of  Andredswold,  looking  down  on  her  with  a  grave 
and  luminous  pity.  She  was  glad  of  him,  glad  of  his  great 
glory,  glad  that  he  had  kissed  her  lips,  and  bewrayed  the 
love  to  her  that  was  in  his  heart.  The  scene  and  the  oc- 
casion were  strange  enough  for  such  broodings,  yet  her 
eyes  were  very  dim  as  she  stood  in  a  half-dream  and  let 
the  picture  drift  across  her  mind. 

The  revelation  had  come  upon  her  with  such  suddenness 
that  she  had  been  for  the  moment  like  one  dazed.  She  had 
watched  Uther  sweep  on  with  his  horde  of  knights,  and  had 
stood  mute  and  impotent  as  one  smitten  dumb  while  the 
red  harness  and  the  golden  dragon  of  Britain  vanished  again 


232  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

into  the  moil  of  war.  Now  her  whole  soul  yearned  out 
with  a  wistfulness  born  of  infinite  regret.  If  he  had  only 
come  to  her  alone  ;  if  he  had  only  come  to  her  as  Pelleas  in 
some  gloom  of  green,  she  could  have  fallen  down  before  his 
horse's  feet,  kissed  the  scabbard  of  his  sword,  wept  over  his 
helmet,  and  burnished  it  with  her  hair.  Sight  of  that  dark 
sad  face  had  made  a  beacon  of  her  on  the  instant. 

And  Gorlois  !  If  she  had  hated  him  yesterday,  she  hated 
him  with  a  tenfold  vigour  since  she  had  looked  again  upon 
Pelleas's  face.  Certainly  her  malice  had  grown  with  an 
Antaean  strength  with  each  humbling  of  her  heart  to  the 
dust,  and  the  very  thought  of  Gorlois  seemed  blasphemy 
against  her  soul  at  such  an  hour. 

With  the  memory  of  Gorlois  a  cloud  dulled  the  clear 
mirror  of  her  mind,  and  her  mood  of  dreams  melted  into 
mist.  The  strong  sense  of  bondage,  of  ineffectual  treason, 
came  back  with  a  fuller  force  as  though  to  menace  her  with 
the  fateful  realism  of  her  lot.  A  hand  seemed  to  sweep 
down  and  wave  her  back  with  a  meaning  so  sinister  that 
even  her  hate  stood  still  a  moment  as  in  sudden  fear ;  she 
had  some  such  feeling  as  of  standing  on  the  brink  of  a 
mysterious  sea  whose  waves  sang  to  her  a  song  of  peril,  of 
misery  and  desire  cooped  up  together  in  the  dim  green 
twilight  of  some  coral  dungeon.  The  lure  of  the  unknown 
beat  upon  her  eyes,  while  love  and  hate,  like  attendant  spirits, 
beckoned  her  over  the  yawn  of  an  open  grave. 

For  the  moment  the  importunity  of  her  immediate  need 
drew  her  from  meditations  alike  bitter  and  divine.  A 
battlefield  after  dark,  with  all  its  lust  and  pillage,  was  no 
pleasant  place  for  a  woman.  The  lights  of  the  town  still 
showed  up  brightly  in  the  west,  but  Igraine  had  little  desire 
of  the  teeming  streets  where  victory  would  be  matching 
blood  with  wine,  and  where  the  revels  of  the  soldiery  would 
celebrate  the  day  in  primal  fashion.  She  was  content  to 
be  alone  under  the  stars,  and  even  the  dead  seemed  more 
sympathetic  than  the  living  at  such  an  hour. 

A  wind  had  risen,  and  she  heard  the  hoarse  "  salve  "  of  the 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  233 

forest  in  the  night.  The  thousand  voices  of  the  trees 
seemed  to  call  to  her  with  a  weird  perpetual  clamour.  She 
saw  their  spectral  hands  jerking  and  clutching  against  the 
sky,  and  heard  the  creak  and  gibber  of  the  criss-cross  boughs 
swaying  in  the  wind.  Leaving  the  hillock,  and  still  bearing 
Brastias's  sword,  she  held  across  the  open,  seeing  as  she 
went  the  dark  streaks  that  dotted  the  hillside  —  the  bodies  of 
men  fallen  in  the  flight.  She  gained  the  trees,  and  was  soon 
deep  among  the  crowded  trunks,  pondering  on  her  lodging 
for  the  night. 

Wandering  hither  and  thither,  looking  for  some  more 
sheltered  spot,  her  glance  lighted  on  a  dim  swelling  of  the 
ground  that  proved  to  be  an  ancient  mound  or  barrow.  It 
had  been  opened  in  times  past,  probably  in  the  search  for 
buried  treasure  or  for  weapons.  Brambles,  weeds,  and 
heather  had  roofed  the  shallow  cutting  into  a  little  recess 
or  cave  that  gave  fair  shelter  from  the  wind,  and  Igraine, 
braving  the  notion  of  barrow  ghost  or  spirit,  claimed  the 
place  as  a  God-send,  and  took  cover  therein. 

The  last  crumbs  in  her  wallet  finished,  she  sat  with  her 
face  between  her  palms,  brooding,  big-eyed,  in  the  night, 
like  any  Druidess  wreathing  spells  in  her  forest  solitude. 
The  wind  was  crying  through  the  trees,  swaying  them 
restlessly  against  the  starry  sky,  making  plaintive  moan 
through  all  the  myriad  aisles.  Igraine  listened  like  one 
huddled  among  her  thoughts  to  keep  out  the  cold.  Miser- 
able as  was  her  lodging,  her  mind  seemed  packed  with  the 
day's  battle  ;  the  whirl  and  thunder  of  it  were  still  moving 
in  her  brain,  a  wild  scene  towered  over  by  a  man  bare- 
headed on  a  black  horse,  holding  his  helmet  to  the  setting 
sun.  Often  and  often  she  heard  the  roar  of  hoofs  and  saw 
the  rush  of  the  charge  that  had  trampled  the  banner  of 
Tintagel  and  hurled  Gorlois  and  his  men  in  rout  from  the 
ridge.  Had  it  been  death  or  life  with  the  man  ?  Was  he 
with  the  King  hearing  holy  mass  and  lifting  up  the  wine 
cup  to  heaven  under  a  flare  of  lights,  or  lying  stifF  and 
pinched  under  the  mild  eyes  of  night  ?  It  was  this  thought, 


234  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

holding  hope  and  doubt  in  common  yoke,  that  abode  with 
her  all  the  night  in  her  refuge  under  the  trees. 

It  was  bleak  enough,  with  a  silvering  of  frost  over  the 
land,  when  darkness  had  rolled  back  over  the  western  sea, 
uncovering  the  wreck  of  death  that  lay  huddled  on  ridge 
and  slope.  Igraine  was  stirring  early  from  the  barrow. 
With  the  cold  and  her  own  thoughts  she  had  slept  but  an 
hour,  and  at  the  first  filtering  of  light  through  the  branches 
she  was  glad  and  ready  for  the  day.  She  wandered  through 
the  forest  towards  the  open  land  that  showed  glimmering 
through  the  tree-boles,  with  no  certain  purpose  moving  in 
her  mind.  The  future  as  yet  was  a  blank  to  her,  lacking 
possibilities,  jealous  of  its  secrets,  saturnine  as  death  itself. 
There  shone  one  light  above  her  that  seemed  to  burn 
through  the  unknown  ;  it  had  long  led  her  from  distant 
hills,  yet  even  her  red  lamp  of  love  beckoned  her  over 
a  sepulchre. 

Coming  to  the  forest  margin,  she  came  full  upon  the 
incontestable  handiwork  of  war.  Under  the  sweep  of  a 
great  pine  lay  the  body  of  a  knight  in  black  harness,  all 
blazoned  with  gold,  while  his  grey  horse  was  still  standing 
with  infinite  patience  by  his  side,  nosing  him  gently  from 
time  to  time.  The  man's  helmet,  a  visored  casque,  some- 
what gladiatorial  in  type,  had  fallen  off,  and  a  young  beard- 
less face  was  turned  placidly  up  to  the  blue,  a  white  oval 
pillowed  upon  a  tuft  of  heather.  There  was  no  blood  or 
sign  of  violence  visible  save  a  blue  bruise  on  his  left  temple  ; 
it  seemed  more  than  probable  that  he  had  been  pitched  from 
the  saddle  and  found  death  in  the  fall. 

Igraine  stood  and  looked  at  him  in  some  pity  while  the 
horse  snuffed  at  her,  staring  with  great  wistful  eyes  as 
though  for  help  or  sympathy.  The  man  was  young,  with  a 
certain  nobility  of  early  manhood  on  his  face,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  very  pitiful  that  he  should  be  cut  off  thus  in  life's 
spring.  As  she  looked  at  him  she  noted  that  he  was  slim 
of  figure,  and  not  much  above  middle  height.  A  sudden 
fancy  took  her  on  the  instant.  She  tethered  the  horse,  and 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  235 

kneeling  down  by  the  man  her  fingers  were  soon  busy  at 
the  buckles  and  joints  of  his  armour.  Ungirding  his  sword, 
she  drew  it  from  the  scabbard  and  set  it  upright  at  his 
head,  sheathing  Brastias's  in  its  place.  Having  stripped  off 
his  armour  and  long  surcoat  she  covered  him  reverently  with 
her  cloak,  slung  the  horse's  bridle  round  her  wrist,  and 
gathering  up  his  arms  and  helmet  went  back  to  the  barrow 
where  she  had  passed  the  night. 

The  wood  had  received  a  woman  in  the  dress  of  a  woman  ; 
it  gave  in  exchange  a  knight  on  a  grey  horse  —  a  knight  in 
black  armour  blazoned  with  gold  under  a  surcoat  of  violet 
cloth.  The  brazen  helmet,  visored  and  hooded  with  mail 
over  nape  of  neck  and  throat,  gleamed  and  flashed  under  the 
green  boughs.  There  were  three  lilies,  snow-white,  and  a 
cloven  heart  upon  the  shield,  and  the  horse  trappings  were 
bossed  and  enamelled  gold  and  blue. 

Igraine  rode  out  from  the  trees  with  the  pomp  of 
a  Launcelot.  The  grey  horse's  mane  tossed  in  the  wind, 
the  furze  rippled  on  the  hillside,  the  cloud-ships  sailed  the 
blue  with  white  sails  spread.  The  girl  was  aglow  with  new 
life  under  her  guise  of  steel.  The  essence  of  manhood 
seemed  to  have  created  itself  within  her  as  from  the  soul  of 
the  dead  knight,  and  she  suffered  the  glory  of  arms  with  a 
pride  that  was  almost  boyish. 

Holding  out  from  the  trees  at  a  solemn  pace,  she  headed 
westward  down  the  valley  along  the  grass  slopes  that  slid 
between  scrub  and  thicket  to  the  sea.  On  the  road  below 
her  a  company  of  spears  trailed  eastward  uphill  in  a  snake- 
like  column  that  glittered  through  the  green.  Pushing  on 
boldly  across  ground  where  the  battle  had  raged  hotly  the 
night  before,  she  reached  the  road  as  the  head  of  the  column 
swung  up  at  a  dull  tramp  on  their  march  home  for  Caerleon. 
Gruffing  her  voice  in  her  throat  she  hailed  the  knight  who 
headed  the  troop  for  news  of  the  battle  of  yesterday,  posing 
as  one  late  on  the  scene,  and  sore  at  having  struck  no  blow 
for  Britain. 

The  knight  drew  aside,  and  letting  his  men  tramp  by, 


236  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

he  gave  tersely  the  tale  of  the  fight  as  he  had  seen  it  from 
King  Nentres's  lines. 

"  St.  Jude  be  blessed,"  said  Igraine  at  the  end  thereof. 
"  I  am  glad,  friend,  of  these  tidings.  As  for  the  field,  it 
looks  to  have  been  as  bloody  a  one  as  ever  I  set  eyes  on." 

"  Bloody  enough,"  quoth  the  man,  giving  his  moustache 
a  twirl ;  "  too  bloody  for  Gilomannius  and  dead  Vortigern's 
whelp." 

"  What  of  Uther  ?  " 

"  Scarce  a  scratch." 

"  King  iMeliograunt  ?  " 

"  Wounded,  but  drunk  as  the  devil." 

"  And  Gorlois  of  Cornwall  ?  " 

The  man  laughed  as  at  a  jest. 

"  Bedded  in  an  abbey,"  said  he,  "  with  a  split  face  ;  mere 
flesh,  mere  flesh,  nothing  deeper." 

Igraine  thanked  him  with  her  helm  adroop,  and  turning 
her  horse,  rode  back  towards  the  forest  heavy  of  heart. 


V 

THE  King's  house  at  Caerleon  stood  out  above  the  Usk  on 
a  little  hill  whose  slopes  were  set  with  shrubberies  and 
gardens,  the  white  pillars  and  broad  facade  glimmering 
above  the  filmy  cloud  of  green  that  covered  the  place  as 
with  a  garment.  A  great  stairway  ran  to  the  river  from 
the  southern  terrace  that  blazed  in  summer  with  flower- 
filled  urns  and  stacks  of  roses  that  overspread  the  balustrade 
with  crimson  flame.  It  was  a  place  of  dawns  and  sunsets  ; 
of  lights  rising  amber  in  the  east  over  purple  hills  and 
amethystine  waters  ;  of  quiet  glows  at  evening  in  the  west, 
with  cypresses  and  yews  carven  in  ebony  against  primrose 
skies  ;  while  in  the  burgeoning  of  the  year  birds  made  the 
thickets  deep  with  melody  ;  and  all  beyond,  Caerleon's 
solemn  towers,  roofs,  casements  bowered  in  green,  rested 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  237 

within  the  battlemented  walls  that  touched  the  domes  and 
leaf-spires  of  the  woods. 

It  was  noontide  in  Caerleon,  and  down  the  great  stair- 
way, with  its  rows  of  cypresses,  its  banks  of  yew  and  myrtle, 
a  fair  company  was  passing  to  the  river,  where  many  barges 
clustered  round  the  water-gate  like  gilded  beetles  sunning 
their  flanks  in  the  shallows.  Knights  and  churchmen  in 
groups  moved  down  from  the  palace  talking  together  as  they 
went.  There  had  been  a  council  of  state  in  the  King's  hall, 
a  great  assembling  of  the  noble  folk  and  prelatry,  to  consider 
the  need  of  Britain,  the  cry  of  the  martyred  and  the  home- 
less from  Kentlands  and  the  east.  Anderida,  that  great 
city  of  the  southern  shores,  had  fallen  in  a  tempest  of  fire 
and  sword  j  no  single  soul  had  escaped  from  its  smoking 
walls ;  the  barbarian  had  entered  in  and  made  great  silence 
over  the  whole  city.  Now  it  was  told  that  more  galleys 
had  come  bearing  the  fair-haired  churls  from  the  sand-dunes 
and  pinewoods,  the  rude  hamlets  of  that  Angle  land  over  the 
sea.  Vectis  had  been  overrun,  Porchester  burnt  to  the 
ground,  even  the  noble  city  of  Winchester  threatened 
despite  its  walls.  Beast  and  robber  had  sole  rule  in  Andreds- 
wold ;  much  of  nether  -Britain  was  a  wilderness,  a  wistful 
land  given  over  to  solitude  and  the  wild  creatures  of  the 
forest.  Churches  were  crumbling;  gillyflowers  grew  on 
the  high  altars,  and  ivy  wrapped  the  tombs  ;  sanctuary  bells 
were  silent,  homes  empty  and  still  as  death.  Desolation 
threatened  the  south,  while  the  valleys  of  Armorica  oversea 
gave  refuge  to  many  who  fled  before  the  Saxon  sword. 

In  the  great  hall  of  the  palace  Uther  still  sat  in  his  chair 
of  ivory  under  a  gilded  roof  that  mingled  huge  beams  with 
banners,  spears,  and  rust-rotted  harness.  The  walls  were 
frescoed  with  Homeric  scenes  —  Helen  meeting  Paris  in  the 
house  of  Menelaus,  Achilles  slaying  Hector,  Ulysses  and 
Calypso.  Twelve  painted  pillars  held  the  crossbeams  of  the 
hall,  and  from  the  fire  on  the  great  hearth  a  fragrant  scent 
of  burning  cedar  wood  drifted  upon  the  air.  A  long  table 
covered  with  parchment,  tablets,  quills  and  inkhorns,  and  an 


238  UTHER  AND  2 'GRAINS 

array  of  empty  benches  testified  to  the  number  of  noble 
folk  who  had  assembled  at  the  royal  conclave.  A  single 
councillor  remained  before  the  King  —  Dubricius,  Bishop  of 
Caerleon,  a  tall  spare  man,  whose  white  hair  and  sensitive 
ascetic  face  bore  testimony  to  an  inward  delicacy  of  soul. 

Uther  was  clad  in  a  tunic  of  scarlet,  with  a  dragon  in 
gold  thread  blazoned  upon  his  breast.  No  crown,  coronet, 
or  fillet  was  on  his  brow ;  on  his  finger  he  wore  the  signet 
of  Ambrosius,  and  his  sword  was  girded  to  him  with  a  girdle 
of  embroidered  leather.  His  look  was  much  the  same  as 
when  he  rode  as  Pelleas  in  Andredswold  and  was  nursed  of 
his  wound  by  Igraine  in  the  island  manor.  Possibly  there 
were  more  lines  upon  his  face,  a  deeper  dignity  of  sadness  in 
his  eyes.  Circumstance  had  put  upon  him  the  cherishing 
of  an  imperilled  kingdom,  and  with  the  charge  his  natural 
stateliness  of  soul  had  risen  into  a  heroism  of  benignant 
chivalry.  No  more  kingly  man  could  have  taken  a  land 
under  the  strong  sweep  of  his  sword.  With  the  grand 
simplicity  of  a  great  heart  he  had  grappled  the  task  as  a 
thing  given  of  God,  bending  ever  in  prayer  like  a  child 
before  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  heaven. 

There  had  been  grave  business  on  his  mind  that  day,  and 
his  face  was  dark  with  a  cloud  of  care  as  he  talked  with 
Dubricius  on  certain  matters  that  lay  near  his  heart.  Uther, 
like  the  men  of  old  time,  was  superstitious  and  ever  prone 
to  regard  all  phenomena  as  possessing  certain  testamentary 
authority  from  the  Deity.  In  mediaeval  fashion  he  referred 
all  human  riddles  to  religious  instinct  for  their  solving,  and 
searched  in  holy  writ  for  guidance  with  a  faith  that  was 
typical  of  his  character.  Wholly  a  Christian  in  a  super- 
stitious sense,  he  gained  from  the  very  fervour  of  his  belief 
a  strength  that  seemed  to  justify  his  very  bigotry. 

It  was  a  certain  experience,  that  to  his  mystic-loving 
instinct  omened  history  still  dark  in  the  womb  of  the  future, 
and  kept  him  closeted  with  Dubricius  that  day  after  knight 
and  churchman  had  filed  out  from  the  conclave.  In  the 
twilight  of  the  hall,  with  its  painted  frescoes  and  glimmering 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  239 

shields,  Dubricius  listened  to  the  King  as  he  spoke  of 
portents  and  visions  of  the  night.  Uther,  with  his  elbow 
resting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  his  chin  upon  his  palm, 
stared  at  the  cedar  wood  burning  pungently  upon  the  hearth 
and  catechised  Dubricius  on  visionary  belief.  The  old  man 
looked  keenly  at  the  King  under  his  arched  white  brows. 
He  was  as  much  a  mystic  in  his  creed  as  this  son  of  Con- 
stantine,  a  believer  in  miracles  and  in  manifestations  in  the 
heavens.  Certainly  unusual  powers  had  been  given  to  the 
early  Church,  and  it  was  not  for  the  atomic  mind  of  man  to 
deny  their  presence  in  any  later  age. 

"  My  lord  dreamed  a  dream,"  said  Dubricius  tentatively 
when  he  had  heard  the  tale  to  the  end. 

Uther  quashed  the  suggestion  with  the  calm  confidence 
of  a  man  sure  of  his  reason. 

"  Never  a  dream,  Dubricius." 

The  old  man's  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  his  face  seemed 
full  of  a  luminous  sanctity. 

"A  vision,  then,  my  lord  ? " 

"  I  am  no  woman,  Dubricius ;  I  must  believe  the  thing 
a  vision,  or  damn  my  senses." 

"  My  lord",  it  is  no  mere  woman's  part  to  see  visions ; 
search  holy  writ  where  the  chosen  of  God  —  the  great  ones 
—  were  miraculously  blessed  with  portent  and  with 
dream." 

Uther  looked  into  the  old  man's  face  as  though  for 
succour. 

"  I  am  troubled  to  know  what  God  would  have  me 
know,"  he  said.  "  Dubricius,  you  are  aged  in  the  service 
of  the  Church  !  " 

"  My  lord,  I  have  no  privilege  from  heaven  in  the  ren- 
dering of  dreams." 

"  Am  I  then  a  Pharaoh  disappointed  of  mine  own  sooth- 
sayers ?  " 

"  Sire,  what  of  Merlin  ?  " 

"  Merlin  —  " 

"  The  man  has  the  gift  of  prophecy  and  can  speak  with 


240  UTHER   AND   IGRAINE 

tongues.  Send  for  him,  my  lord ;  he  is  a  child  of  the 
Church,  though  a  mage." 

Uther  warmed  himself  before  the  fire  of  cedar  wood,  his 
face  motionless  in  contemplative  calm.  Presently  he  turned, 
and  looked  deep  into  Dubricius's  vigil-hollowed  eyes  as 
though  to  read  the  thoughts  therein. 

"  Merlin,  the  black-haired  man  who  told  Vortigern  of 
the  future  !  " 

"  He  spoke  the  truth,  my  lord." 

"  Sad  truth  for  Vortigern." 

"  Yet  who  should  fear  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Dubricius,  to  hear  of  death  !  " 

"  Death,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Remember  Vortigern." 

"  My  lord,  he  was  a  planet  lurid  with  murder,  and  so 
damned  to  darkness.  Need  the  sun  fear  light  ?  " 

Uther  smiled  sadly  in  the  old  man's  face. 

"You  are  too  faithful  a  courtier,  Dubricius." 

"  My  lord,  you  are  the  pillar  of  a  distraught  land  ;  God 
be  merciful  and  spare  you  to  us." 

"  I  have  done  my  duty." 

"  Amen,  sire,  to  that." 

Uther  went  and  stood  by  the  great  window  of  the  room 
with  his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast.  His  hollow  eyes 
looked  out  over  the  city,  and  there  was  a  gaunt  grandeur  of 
thought  upon  his  face.  He  was  not  a  man  who  galloped 
down  destiny  like  a  huntsman  on  the  trail  of  a  stag ;  delib- 
eration entered  into  his  motives,  and  he  never  foundered 
reason  with  over-use  of  the  spur.  Dubricius  stood  and 
watched  him  with  the  smile  of  a  father,  for  he  loved  the 
man. 

Presently  Uther  turned  back  towards  the  fire.  Dubricius 
saw  by  his  face  that  he  had  come  by  decision,  and  that  his 
mind  was  steadfast. 

"  Merlin  is  at  Sarum,  my  lord." 

"I  shall  not  play  Saul  at  Endor." 

"  No,  sire." 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  241 

"The  man  shall  come  to  me  with  no  jugglery  in  dark 
corners." 

41  Wise  forethought,  my  lord  king." 

"  I  remember  me,  Dubricius,  that  you  have  little  leisure 
to  hear  of  dreams.  I  have  given  you  the  names  of  the  holy 
houses  to  be  rebuilt  and  consecrated  in  the  name  of  God. 
We  will  save  Britain  by  the  help  of  the  cross.  God  speed 
you." 

Alone  in  the  half  light  of  the  hall  Uther  stood  and  stared 
into  the  fire,  his  eyes  luminous  in  the  glow,  while  the 
pungent  scent  of  the  burning  wood  swept  up  like  a  savour 
of  eastern  spices.  There  was  intense  feeling  on  his  face, 
a  kind  of  passionate  calm,  as  he  gazed  into  the  red  bosom 
of  the  fire.  Presently,  as  though  turning  in  thought  from 
some  enchantment  of  the  past,  he  sighed  wearily,  put  his 
black  hair  from  his  forehead  with  both  hands,  and  looked  at 
his  image  in  a  mirror  of  steel  that  hung  from  a  painted 
pillar.  There  was  a  wistful  look  upon  his  strong  face;  he 
had  a  soul  that  remembered,  a  soul  not  numbed  by  time 
into  mere  painless  recollection  of  the  past.  As  in  some 
mysterious  temple,  love,  with  solemn  sound  of  flute  and 
dulcimer,  kept  fire  unquenched  night  and  day  upon  the  altar 
of  his  heart. 

Rising  up  out  of  his  mood  of  gloom,  an  earthly  Hyperion 
whose  face  shone  anew  over  Britain,  he  passed  out,  and 
calling  to  the  guards  lounging  on  the  terrace,  descended  the 
stairway  that  sloped  through  gardens  to  the  river.  His 
state  barge  was  in  waiting  at  the  gate,  and  entering  in  he 
was  borne  downstream  towards  the  town  whose  white  walls 
rose  up  amid  the  emerald  mist  of  spring.  Over  all  Uther 
cast  his  eye  with  a  lustre  look  of  love,  a  love  that  shone  like 
the  smile  of  a  child  at  a  mother's  face.  Caerleon  was  dear 
to  him  beyond  all  other  cities ;  its  white  walls  held  his 
heart  with  the  whispered  conjure  word  of  u  home." 

Landing  at  the  great  quay,  where  many  ships  and  galleys 
lay  moored,  he  passed  up  towards  the  market  square  with 
the  files  of  his  guard,  smiling  back  on  the  reverences  of  the 


242  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

people,  throwing  here  and  there  a  coin,  happy  in  the  honour 
that  echoed  to  him  from  every  face.  Before  the  walls  of  a 
pilastered  house  his  guards  halted  with  a  fanfare  of  trumpets, 
a  sound  that  rolled  the  gates  wide  and  brought  a  mob  of 
servants  to  line  the  outer  court.  Knights  came  down  from 
the  house  with  heads  uncovered.  It  was  the  King's  first 
entry  into  Gorlois's  atrium  since  the  disbanding  of  the  host 
after  the  war  in  Wales. 

A  face  scarred  with  red  across  cheek  and  chin,  with  nose 
askew,  one  lower  lid  turned  down,  came  out  to  Uther  from 
the  doorway  of  an  inner  room.  There  was  a  drawn  look 
upon  the  man's  face,  a  sullen  saturnine  air  about  him  as 
though  he  were  vexed  inwardly  with  the  chafe  of  some 
perpetual  pain.  The  pinched  frown,  the  restless  bloodshot 
eyes,  the  hunched  shoulders,  were  all  strange  to  Uther,  who 
looked  for  Gorlois,  the  man  of  arrogant  and  imperial  pride, 
whose  splendour  of  person,  carriage  of  head,  and  long  lithe 
stride  had  marked  him  a  stag  royal  from  the  herd  of  meaner 
men. 

Uther,  grave  as  a  god,  gripped  the  other's  thin  sinewy 
fingers,  his  eyes  searching  Gorlois's  face  with  a  large-minded 
scrutiny  inspired  by  the  natural  sympathies  of  his  heart. 
Gorlois,  for  his  part,  half  crooked  the  knee,  and  drew  a 
carved  chair  before  the  ill-tended  fire.  He  had  an  Asmodean 
pride,  and  the  look  in  Uther's  eyes  was  more  troublesome 
to  him  than  a  glare  of  hate.  His  face  never  lightened  from 
the  murk  of  reserve  that  covered  it  like  a  mask,  and  it  was 
the  King  who  spoke  the  first  word  over  the  flickering  fire. 

"  What  of  your  wounds  ?  "  he  said. 

Gorlois's  black  beard  was  down  on  his  breast,  and  he 
looked  only  at  the  fire.  He  seemed  like  a  man  furtive 
beneath  the  consciousness  of  some  inward  shame,  mocking 
his  honour. 

"  My  wounds  are  well,  sire." 

"  You  look  like  a  man  newly  risen  from  a  sick  bed." 

"  If  I  look  sick,  sire,  blame  my  physician ;  he  has  tinc- 
tured me  to  the  level  of  perdition.  Bodily  I  never  felt  in 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  243 

better  fettle.  I  colild  hew  down  a  horse,  and  thrust  my 
spear  through  a  pine  trunk.  A  man's  face  is  a  fallacy." 

Uther  saw  the  scars,  the  harsh  smile,  and  caught  the 
twinge  in  the  seemingly  careless  voice.  He  could  compre- 
hend some  humiliation  in  the  marring  of  personal  comeli- 
ness, but  not  the  humiliation  that  seemed  to  lurk  deep 
beneath  Gorlois's  pride.  There  was  more  here  than  the 
scarring  of  a  cheek. 

"  There  is  some  care  upon  you,  Gorlois,"  he  said. 

"  Sire,  you  have  much  observation." 

"  Your  men  have  spoken  of  the  change  to  you." 

"  They  are  too  discreet,  God  save  their  skins." 

"  Pride,  pride." 

"  Sire,  you  are  right ;  my  pride  suffers  the  inquisitiveness 
of  kings,  not  subjects.  Eagle  calls  to  eagle ;  men  are 
mere  magpies.  Chatter  maddens  me." 

u  I  grip  your  hand  in  spirit." 

Both  men  were  silent  for  a  while,  the  fire  crackling  slug- 
gishly at  their  feet.  Gorlois's  eyes  were  on  the  window 
and  the  scrap  of  green  woodland  in  the  distance  ;  Uther's 
eyes  were  on  Gorlois's  face.  The  latter,  with  the  sore 
sensitiveness  of  a  diseased  spirit,  felt  the  look  and  chafed 
at  it.  His  petulance  was  plain  enough  to  Uther  as  he  sat 
and  watched  him,  and  pondered  the  man's  trouble  in  his 
heart. 

«  Gorlois." 

"Sire." 

"  I  am  no  gabbler." 

"True,  my  lord." 

"You  are  trouble  ridden." 

Gorlois's  eyes  flashed  up  to  Uther's,  faltered,  and  fell. 

u  What  of  that,  sire  ?  "  he  said  curtly. 

"  You  have  a  deadly  pride." 

"  I  own  it." 

Uther  leant  forward  in  his  chair,  and  looked  earnestly 
into  the  other's  face. 

"  I  too  am  a  proud  man  in  my  trouble,"  he  said,  "  buck- 


244  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

ling  up  unutterable  things  from  the  baseness  of  the  world, 
jealous  of  my  inward  miseries.  Yet  when  I  see  a  strong 
man  and  a  friend  chained  with  the  iron  of  a  silent  woe,  I 
cannot  keep  my  sympathy  in  leash,  so  tell  him  to  unburden 
to  a  man  whose  pride  feels  for  the  pride  of  others." 

The  words  seemed  to  stir  Gorlois  from  his  lethargy  of 
reserve  and  silence.  Uther's  very  largeness  of  soul,  his 
stately  faith  and  courtesy,  were  qualities  that  won  largely 
upon  the  mind,  lifting  it  above  factious  things  to  the  serene 
level  of  his  own  soul.  Gorlois,  impulsive  spirit,  could  not 
rebuff  such  a  man  as  Uther.  There  was  a  certain  calm 
disinterestedness  in  the  King's  nature  that  made  trust  im- 
perative and  condemned  secretiveness  as  churlish.  Gorlois 
was  an  obstinate  man  in  the  extreme  rendering  of  the 
epithet.  He  had  spoken  to  no  one  of  his  trouble,  leaving 
his  thoughts  to  be  inferred.  Yet  staunch  sympathy  like 
Gige's  ring  has  power  over  most  hidden  things  of  the  heart, 
and  Gorlois  was  very  human. 

"  It  is  a  woman,  sire." 

"  Mine  was  a  woman,  too." 

Gorlois  scattered  the  half-dead  embers  with  his  foot. 

"  I  married  a  wife,"  he  said. 

"  I  had  never  heard  it." 

"  Few  have." 

"  The  woman's  name  ?  " 

"  Never  ask  it,  sire  ;  it  will  soon  lie  with  her  in  the  dust." 

"  These  are  grim  words." 

"Grim  enough  for  the  man  of  my  own  house, —  my 
own  familiar  friend." 

"  Mother  of  Christ,  —  your  friend  !  " 

"  My  brother  in  arms,  sire." 

"The  shedding  of  such  blood  seems  like  justice.  Had 
I  suffered  thus  — 

"  Sire,  you  warm  to  my  temper." 

"It  should  be  the  sword." 

u  Mine  yet  waits  white  for  blood." 

Gorlois,  implacable,  grim  as  a  werewolf,  threw  open  the 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  24$ 

door  of  a  closet  and  led  Uther  within  the  narrow  compass 
of  its  walls.  It  was  a  little  oratory,  dim  and  fantastic,  with 
lamps  hanging  from  the  roof,  and  black  curtains  over  the 
narrow  casement.  Two  waxen  candles  burnt  with  steady, 
windless  flames  upon  the  altar,  and  beneath  their  light 
glimmered  a  great  sword,  naked,  and  a  cup  half  filled  with 
purple  wine.  Gorlois  took  up  the  sword  and  touched  it 
with  his  lips. 

"  For  the  man,"  he  said. 

Then  he  set  the  sword  down  beneath  its  candle  and 
touched  the  goblet  with  his  fingers ;  his  black  eyes 
glittered. 

"  For  the  woman,  sire." 

"  And  the  candles  ?  " 

"  I  burn  them  till  I  have  crushed  the  life  out  of  two  souls  ; 
then  I  can  pinch  the  wicks  between  my  fingers,  and  snuff 
them  out  in  smoke." 


VI 

IT  was  spring  at  Caerleon,  and  a  web  of  green  had  swept 
upon  the  empty  purple  of  the  woods  and  shut  the  naked 
casements  to  the  sun.  The  meadowlands  were  plains  of 
emerald  that  glimmered  gold ;  the  gorge  blazed  with  its 
myriad  lamps  lighting  the  dark  gateways  of  the  pine 
forests,  and  covering  all  the  hillsides  as  with  a  garment  of 
yellow.  In  the  woods  the  birds  sang,  and  hyacinths  and 
dog  violets  spread  pools  of  blue  beneath  the  infinite  green- 
ness of  the  boughs.  In  Caerleon's  orchards  the  fruit  trees 
stood  like  mounts  of  snow  flecked  with  ethereal  pink  and 
a  prophecy  of  green.  Yew,  cypress,  cedar,  reared  their 
dark  bosoms  betwixt  the  gentler  foliage,  and  many  a  bronze- 
leafed  oak  made  mimic  autumn  with  a  mist  of  leaves. 

In  a  forest  glade  that  opened  upon  the  high-road  some 
three  leagues  eastward  of  Caerleon,  an  old  man  sat  beside  a 
shallow  spring,  whose  waters  lay  a  pool  of  tarnished  silver 


246  UTHER  AND  /GRAINS 

within  the  low  stone  wall  that  compassed  them.  The  old 
man  by  the  pool  was  clad  in  a  ragged  cloak  of  coarse  brown 
cloth  lined  with  rabbit  skin ;  he  had  sandals  on  his  feet,  a 
staff  and  wallet  by  his  side,  and  under  the  shadow  of  his 
hood  of  fur  a  peaky  white  beard  hung  down  like  an  icicle 
under  the  eaves  of  a  house.  His  hands  were  thin  and 
white,  and  he  seemed  decrepit  as  he  sat  hunched  by  the  well 
with  a  crust  of  brown  bread  in  his  lap  and  a  little  bronze 
pannikin  that  served  him  as  a  cup. 

It  was  late  in  the  day,  and  the  great  oaks  that  reached 
out  their  arms  over  the  well  stood  solemn  and  still  in  the 
evening  calm,  while  the  cloud  masses  bastioned  overhead 
were  radiant  with  the  lustre  of  the  hour.  The  road  curled 
away  right  and  left  into  the  twilight  of  the  woods;  no  folk 
passed  to  and  from  Caerleon  to  throw  alms  to  the  beggar 
who  squatted  there  like  any  old  goblin  man  out  of  a  tomb. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  turn  and  look  long  into  the 
pool  as  into  a  mirror,  as  though  he  watched  the  future 
glimmering  dimly  in  a  magic  well.  He  had  finished  his 
crust  of  bread,  and  his  head  nodded  over  his  lap  as  though 
sleep  tempted  him  after  a  day's  journey.  Rabbits  were 
scampering  and  feeding  along  the  edge  of  the  forest ;  a 
snake  slid  by  in  the  grass  like  a  streak  of  silver ;  far  down 
the  glade  a  herd  of  fallow  deer  browsed  as  though  caring 
nothing  for  the  huddled  scrap  of  humanity  by  the  well. 
The  beggar  man  might  have  been  dead,  for  all  the  heed  he 
gave  to  the  forest  life  that  teemed  so  near. 

Yet  it  was  soon  evidenced  that  his  faculties  were  keenly 
alive  to  all  that  passed  about  him  by  a  marvellous  perception 
of  sound,  a  perception  that  made  itself  plain  before  the  sun 
had  drifted  much  further  down  the  west.  The  old  man 
had  heard  something  that  had  not  stirred  the  fallow  deer 
browsing  in  the  glade.  A  thin  metallic  sound  shimmered 
on  the  air,  the  clattering  cadence  of  hoofs  far  away  upon  the 
high-road.  The  beggar  by  the  pool  had  lifted  his  head,  and 
was  listening  with  his  hooded  face  turned  towards  the  west, 
his  thin  fingers  picking  unconsciously  at  his  beard. 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  247 

Presently  the  deer  browsing  in  the  glade  reared  up  their 
heads  to  listen,  snuffed  the  air,  and  swept  back  at  a  trot  into 
the  forest.  Jays  chattered  away  over  the  trees;  rabbits 
stopped  feeding  and  sat  up  with  their  long  ears  red  in  the 
sunlight.  The  indifferent  suggestion  of  a  sound  had  grown 
into  a  ringing  tramp  that  came  through  the  trees  like  a 
blunt  challenge  to  the  solitary  spirit  of  the  place.  Through 
the  indefinite  and  mazy  screens  of  green  a  glitter  of  harness 
and  a  streaking  of  colour  glimmered  from  the  wizard  amber 
glow  of  the  west.  Three  horsemen  were  coming  under  the 
trees,  —  one  in  lurid  arms  before,  and  two  abreast  behind  in 
black.  The  beggar  by  the  pool  pulled  his  cowl  down  over 
his  face,  and  stood  by  the  roadside  with  his  bronze  pannikin 
held  in  a  shaky  right  hand  to  pray  for  alms. 

The  knights  drew  rein  by  the  pool,  and  he  in  the  red 
harness  flung  down  money  from  his  belt,  and  required  tidings 
in  return: 

"  The  Lord  Jesus  have  mercy  on  your  soul  in  death," 
came  the  whine  of  gratitude ;  "  what  would  your  lordship 
learn  from  an  old  man  ?  " 

Uther  considered  him  from  the  shadow  of  his  casque. 
He  had  his  suspicions,  and  was  half  wise  in  his  conjectures. 
He  could  see  nothing  of  the  old  man's  face,  and  so  elected 
to  be  innocent  for  the  moment. 

"  Grandfather,  have  you  heard  in  your  days  of  Merlin  the 
prophet  ?  " 

"  Have  I  heard  of  the  devil,  lording  !  " 

"  Were  he  to  ride  here,  should  you  know  his  face  ? " 

"  Sir,  I  have  seen  no  man  these  three  hours.  Yet,  in 
truth,  I  did  but  now  smell  a  savour  as  of  hell ;  and  there 
was  a  raven  here,  a  black  villain  of  a  bird  that  croaked 
4  Abracadabra  to  the  letter.'  " 

Uther  smiled. 

"  Are  you  from  Caerleon  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,  sire,  it  is  Uther  the  King  who  comes  from  the  City 
of  Legions." 

"  Uther,  say  you  ?     Put  back  that  hood." 


248  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"My  lord,  lo !  I  bow  myself;  I  have  kept  the 
tryst." 

The  cowl  fell  back,  the  cloak  was  unwrapped,  the  beard 
twitched  from  the  smooth,  strong  chin.  The  bent  figure, 
feeble  and  meagre,  straightened  and  dilated  to  a  stature  and 
bulk  beyond  mere  common  mould.  A  man  with  hair  black 
as  a  raven's  wing,  and  great  glistening  eyes,  stood  with  his 
moon-face  turned  up  to  Uther  Pendragon.  A  smile  played 
upon  his  lips.  He  was  clad  in  a  cloak  of  sombre  purple, 
wreathed  about  with  strange  devices,  and  a  leopard's  skin 
covered  his  shoulders ;  his  black  hair  was  bound  with  a  fillet 
of  gold,  and  there  were  gold  bracelets  upon  his  wrists.  It 
was  Merlin  who  stood  before  Uther  under  the  arch  of  the 
great  trees. 

"  The  benisons  of  all  natural  powers  be  upon  you ;  the 
God  of  the  stars  and  the  spirit  fires  of  the  heavens  keep  you. 
Great  is  your  heart,  O  King,  and  great  your  charity.  Bid 
me  but  serve  you,  and  the  beggar's  pence  shall  win  you  a 
blessing." 

The  man  bowed  himself  even  to  the  ground.  Uther  left 
his  horse  tethered  to  a  tree,  and  faced  Merlin  over  the  pool. 
Both  men  were  solemn  as  night  in  their  looks. 

"  Merlin,"  said  the  King. 

"  Sire." 

"  I  have  a  riddle  from  the  stars." 

«  Speak  it,  O  King." 

"  To  your  ear  alone." 

"  Sire,  pass  with  me  into  the  forest." 

"  Blessed  be  thy  head  if  thou  canst  read  the  testament  of 
the  heavens." 

It  was  towards  sunset,  and  the  place  was  solemn  and 
still  as  some  vast  church.  In  the  white  roadway  the  black 
knights  stood  motionless,  with  spear  on  thigh,  their  sable 
plumes  sweeping  like  cloudlets  under  the  dark  vault  of  the 
foliage.  Merlin,  with  the  look  of  an  eternity  in  his  eyes, 
bowed  down  once  more  before  Uther,  and  pointed  with  his 
hand  into  the  dim  cloister  of  the  trees.  Red  and  purple 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  249 

passed  together  from  the  pool,  and  melted  slowly  into  an 
oblivion  of  leaves. 

In  a  little  glade  under  a  great  oak,  whose  roots  gripped 
the  ground  like  talons,  Uther  told  to  Merlin  the  vision  that 
had  come  to  him  in  the  watches  of  the  night.  He  had  stood 
late  at  his  window,  looking  over  Caerleon  shimmering  white 
under  the  moon,  and  had  seen  a  star  of  transcendent  glory 
smite  sudden  through  the  blue  vault  of  the  heavens.  A 
great  ray  had  fallen  from  the  star,  and  from  the  ray  had 
risen  a  vapour,  a  golden  mist  that  had  shaped  itself  into  a 
dragon  of  gold,  and  from  the  dragon's  mouth  had  proceeded 
two  smaller  rays  that  had  seemed  to  compass  Britain  between 
two  streams  of  fire.  Then,  like  smoke,  both  star  and  dragon 
had  melted  out  of  the  heavens,  and  only  the  moon  had  looked 
down  on  Usk  and  the  sleeping  woods  about  Caerleon. 

When  Uther  had  spoken  his  whole  soul  in  this  mystery 
of  the  night,  Merlin  withdrew  himself  a  little  and  looked 
long  into  the  sky,  his  tall  figure  and  strong  face  clear  as 
chiselled  stone  in  a  slant  gleam  of  the  sun.  For  fully  the 
third  part  of  an  hour  he  stood  thus  like  a  pillar  of  basalt, 
neither  moving  nor  uttering  a  sound,  while  the  sky  fainted 
over  the  tree  tops  and  flashed  red  fire  from  the  armour 
of  the  King.  Suddenly,  as  though  he  had  caught  inspira- 
tion from  the  heavens,  prophecy  came  upon  him  like  a 
wind  at  sunset.  He  stretched  his  hands  to  the  sky.  His 
body  quivered ;  his  eyes  were  as  rubies  in  a  mask  of 
marble. 

"  I  have  seen,  O  King  !  I  have  looked  into  the  palpitating 
web  of  the  stars,  into  the  glittering  aisles  of  the  infinite." 

Uther  strode  out  from  the  tree  trunk  where  he  had  leant 
watching  the  man's  cataleptic  pose  grow  into  the  quick  furor 
of  prophecy. 

"  Say  on,"  he  said. 

Merlin  swept  a  hand  towards  him  with  a  magnificence 
of  gesture. 

"Thou  art  the  star,  the  dragon  is  thy  son.  He  shall 
compass  Britain  with  a  band  of  steel,  beat  back  the  wolves 


2$0  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

of  heathendom,  and  cast  stupendous  glory  over  Britain's 
realm.  His  name  shall  shine  in  history,  sun-bright,  mag- 
nificent, and.  pure;  his  name  shall  be  Arthur.  Thus,  O 
King  !  Uther  of  the  Dragon,  read  I  this  vision  of  the  night." 

Uther,  a  gradual  lustre  in  his  eyes,  looked  long  at  the 
sun  behind  the  swart  pillars  of  the  forest.  He  seemed  to 
gather  vigour  from  the  glow.  Prophecy  was  in  his  thought, 
a  prophecy  that  tempted  the  inmost  dreamings  of  the  heart, 
and  linked  up  the  past  with  promise  of  the  future.  To  love, 
to  be  loved,  to  win  the  woman  among  women  !  To  beget 
a  son,  a  warrior,  a  king ;  to  harden  his  body  like  to  an  oak, 
temper  his  heart  like  steel ;  to  set  the  cross  in  his  hands  and 
send  him  forth  against  the  beast  and  the  barbarian  like  a. 
god  !  Such,  indeed,  were  the  idyls  of  a  King  ! 

"  Merlin,  I  have  no  wife,  and  you  speak  to  me  of  a  son," 
was  his  sole  answer. 

The  retort  echoed  from  the  man. 

"  The  King  must  wed." 

"This  is  no  mere  choosing  of  a  horse." 

41  Sire,  you  can  learn  to  love.  It  is  not  so  difficult  a 
thing,  no  more  than  falling  down  upon  a  bed  of  roses." 

The  retort  was  in  no  wise  suited  to  Uther's  humour. 

"  I  am  no  boy  to  be  married  on  the  moment  to  cap  the 
reading  of  a  vision." 

"  Sire !  " 

"  Bring  me  the  woman  I  may  love,  if  you  are  magical 
enough,  —  then  bid  me  wed." 

"  My  lord,  you  mock  me  with  a  dream." 

"  Not  so." 

"  She  is  dead  then  ?  " 

"  On  my  soul  I  know  not." 

«  Then,  sire  - 

"  All  women  are  dead  to  me  save  one.  Conjure  her  into 
my  being,  and  I  will  give  you  the  wiser  half  of  myself,  even 
my  heart." 

For  an  instant  Merlin  smiled  —  a  smile  like  an  afterglow 
in  a  winter  sky,  —  clear,  cold,  and  steely.  He  drew  nearer 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  251 

Uther,  his  purple  robe  with  its  fantastic  scroll-work  dim  in 
the  twilight,  his  black  hair  falling  down  about  his  face.  His 
words  were  like  silken  things  purring  from  his  lips. 

44  My  lord,  tell  me  more." 

44  You  are  a  prophet.      Read  my  past." 

44  Sire,  my  vision  fails  at  such  a  depth." 

"  But  not  thy  flattery." 

41  Her  name,  sire  ?  " 

41 1  will  read  you  a  fable." 

Uther,  his  eyes  lit  as  with  a  lustre  of  recollection,  turned 
from  Merlin  and  the  ken  of  his  impenetrable  face.  He  leant 
against  a  tree  trunk,  and  looked  far  away  into  the  dwindling 
vistas  of  the  woods.  His  voice  won  emphasis  from  the 
absolute  silence  of  the  place,  and  he  spoke  with  the  level 
deliberation  of  one  reading  aloud  from  some  antique  book. 

44  A  woman  befriended  a  knight  who  was  smitten  of  a 
dread  wound.  It  was  summer,  and  a  sweet  season  full  of 
the  scent  of  flowers,  —  odours  of  grass  knee  deep  in  dreamy 
meadows.  The  woman  had  red-gold  hair,  and  eyes  like  a 
summer  night ;  her  mouth  was  more  wistful  than  an  open- 
ing rose ;  her  voice  was  like  a  flute  over  moonlit  waters. 
And  the  knight  lost  his  soul  to  the  woman.  But  the 
woman  was  a  nun,  and  so,  to  save  his  vows,  he  battled  down 
his  love  and  left  her." 

Merlin's  eyes  took  a  sudden  glitter. 

44  A  nun,  sire  ?  " 

44  A  nun." 

44  With  hair  of  red  gold  and  eyes  of  amethyst.  Her 
convent,  sire  ?  " 

44  Avangel.  Burnt  by  the  heathen  on  the  southern 
shores." 

44  And  the  nun's  name  ?  " 

44  Igraine,  Igraine." 

Merlin  gave  a  shrill,  short  cry ;  badges  of  colour  had 
stolen  into  his  cheeks,  and  he  looked  like  a  Bacchanal  for 
the  moment. 

44  Sire,  sire,  the  woman  is  no  nun." 


252  UTHER  AND  I  GRAINS 

Uther  still  leant  against  the  tree,  and  looked  into  the 
distance  with  his  hand  shadowing  his  eyes.  It  might  have 
seemed  that  he  had  not  heard  the  words  spoken  by  Merlin, 
or  at  least  had  not  understood  their  meaning,  so  unmoved 
was  his  look,  so  motionless  his  figure.  Unutterable  thoughts 
were  moving  in  his  mind.  There  was  a  grandeur  of  self- 
suppression  on  his  face  as  he  turned  and  fronted  Merlin 
with  the  quiet  of  a  great  strength. 

"  Man,  what  words  are  these  ?  " 

Merlin  had  recoiled  suddenly  within  himself.  He  was 
silent  again,  subtle  as  steel,  and  very  debonair. 

"  My  lord,  I  swear  she  is  no  nun." 

"  Give  me  fact,  not  assertion." 

"  The  woman  is  but  a  novice.  I  had  the  whole  tale  from 
one  who  knew  her  well  at  Radamanth's  in  Winchester, 
where  she  found  a  home.  She  had  grieved,  sire,  for  Pelleas." 

"  Pelleas  —  Igraine  !  My  heart  is  great  in  me,  Merlin  ; 
where  saw  you  her  last  ?  " 

"  Wandering  in  a  wood  by  Winchester." 

"  Alone  ? " 

"  Alone  in  heart." 

"  Where  now  ?  " 

"  My  lord  —  I  know  not." 

"  O  God  !  —  to  see  her  face  again." 

Merlin  cast  his  leopard  skin  across  his  visage  and  stood 
like  a  statue,  even  his  immense  grandeur  of  reserve  threatened 
for  the  moment  with  summary  overthrow.  In  the  taking 
of  twenty  breaths  he  had  calmed  himself  again  to  stand  with 
bare  head  and  frank  face  before  the  King  —  a  promise  on 
his  lips. 

"  My  lord,  give  me  a  moon's  season  to  stare  into  this 
mystery.  On  the  cross  I  swear  it  —  I  will  bring  you  good 
news  at  Caerleon." 

"  On  the  cross  !  " 

"  On  the  cross  of  your  sword." 

"  Merlin,  if  this  thing  should  come  to  be,  if  life  returns 
to  one  whose  hopes  were  dead,  you  of  all  men  in  Britain 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  253 

shall  be  next  my  heart.  Behold  —  on  the  cross  —  I 
swear  it." 

A  certain  season  of  youth  seemed  to  have  come  down 
upon  Uther,  and  lighted  up  the  solemn  tenor  of  his  mood. 
His  face  grew  mellow  with  the  calm  of  a  great  content ;  he 
was  reasonable  as  to  the  future,  not  moved  to  any  extrava- 
gant outburst  of  unrest ;  the  constant  overshadowing  of  the 
cross  seemed  to  give  his  faith  a  tranquil  greenness  —  a  rain- 
refreshed  calm  that  pervaded  his  being  like  moist  quiet  after 
a  wind. 

"  Merlin,  what  of  the  night  ?  " 

"  Sire,  I  am  well  provided  ;  I  have  a  pavilion  near  a  brook 
where  a  damsel  serves  me." 

"  I  go  to  Caerleon.  You  have  conjured  me  back  into 
the  spring  of  life  ;  my  heart  is  beholden  to  you.  Take  my 
hand  —  and  remember." 

"  Sire,  I  am  your  servant." 

When  Uther  had  passed,  a  streak  of  scarlet,  into  the  blue 
twilight  of  the  darkening  wood  ;  when  the  dull  clatter  of 
hoofs  had  dwindled  into  an  ecstasy  of  silence,  Merlin,  white 
as  the  faint  moon  above,  found  again  the  pool  under  the 
trees  by  the  high-road  to  Caerleon.  Going  on  his  knees  by 
the  brink  he  looked  into  its  waters,  black,  sheeny,  mysterious, 
webbed  with  a  flickering  west-light,  sky  mosaics  dim  and 
ethereal  between  swart-imaged  trees.  Still  as  a  mirror  was 
the  pool,  yet  touched  occasionally  with  light  as  from  a 
rippling  star-beam,  or  a  dropped  string  from  the  moon's 
silver  sandals.  Merlin  bent  over  it,  his  fateful  face  making 
a  baleful  image  in  the  water.  Long  he  looked,  as  though 
seeking  some  prophetic  picture  in  the  pool.  When  night 
had  come  he  rose  up  with  a  transient  smile,  folded  his  cloak 
about  him,  and  passed  like  a  wraith  into  the  forest. 


254  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 


VII 

WHILE  Gorlois  was  lowering  over  an  imagined  shame,  and 
Uther  given  to  brooding  on  a  vision,  the  Knight  of  the 
Cloven  Heart  wandered  through  wild  Wales  and  endured 
sundry  adventures  that  were  hardly  in  concatenation  with 
the  distaff  or  the  cradle. 

In  rough  ages  might  was  right,  and  every  man's  inclina- 
tion law  unto  himself.  To  strike  hard  was  to  win  crude 
justice  ;  to  ride  a  horse,  to  wear  mail,  to  carry  a  sword,  were 
characteristics  that  ensured  considerable  reverence  from  men 
less  fortunate,  by  maintaining  at  least  an  outward  arrogance 
of  strength.  Not  only  on  these  grounds  alone  did  the 
Knight  of  the  Cloven  Heart  hold  at  a  disadvantage  those 
folk  of  the  wilderness  who  went  —  to  speak  metaphorically — 
naked.  She  made  brave  show  enough,  had  a  strong  arm 
and  a  strong  body,  and  could  match  any  man  in  the  mere 
matter  of  courage.  The  moral  effect  of  her  great  horse,  her 
shield  and  harness,  and  the  sword  at  her  side,  carried  her 
unchallenged  through  wood  and  valley  where  meaner  way- 
farers might  have  come  to  grief,  or  suffered  a  tumbling. 
The  forest  folk  assumed  her  a  knight  under  her  helmet  and 
her  harness ;  a  certain  bold  magnificence  of  bearing  in  no 
wise  contradicted  the  assumption. 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  record  the  passage  of  two 
months  or  more,  to  construct  an  itinerary  of  her  progress,  to 
chronicle  the  events  of  a  period  that  was  solitary  as  the  wilds 
through  which  she  passed.  She  never  slept  a  night  under 
populous  roof  the  whole  time  of  these  wanderings.  Luckily 
it  was  fair  weather,  and  a  mild  season  ;  forest  shade,  such  as 
it  was,  and  the  caves  of  the  wilderness,  a  ruined  villa,  the 
forsaken  hut  of  a  charcoal  burner,  an  empty  hermitage, —  such 
in  turn  gave  her  shelter  from  the  placid  light  of  the  moon, 
or  the  black  stare  of  a  starless  sky.  She  never  ventured 
even  among  peasant  folk  unhelmeted.  Her  food  was  won 
from  cottager  or  herdsman  by  such  store  of  money  as  she 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  25$ 

had  about  her,  though  many  she  came  across  were  eager  to 
appease  so  formidable  a  person  with  milk,  and  pottage,  and 
the  little  delicacies  of  the  rude  home.  Often  her  fine 
carriage  and  youthful  voice  won  wonders  from  the  bosom 
of  some  peasant  housewife.  She  had  her  liberty,  and  was 
free  to  roam  ;  the  life  contented  her  instincts  for  a  season, 
and  at  least  she  was  saved  the  sight  of  Gorlois.  Since  war 
had  failed  to  loose  her  from  the  man,  she  would  essay  her 
best  to  keep  him  at  a  distance. 

If  hate  repelled,  love  drew  with  dreams.  Yet  had  Igraine 
been  asked  of  peace  at  heart,  she  would  have  smiled  and 
sighed  together.  There  are  degrees  of  misery,  and  solitary 
suffering  is  preferable  to  that  publicity  which  is  very  torture 
in  itself,  a  galling  whip  to  the  tender  flanks  of  pride.  In 
being  free  of  Gorlois  she  was  happy  ;  in  thinking  of  Uther 
and  in  contemplation  of  the  shadows  of  the  unknown  she 
was  of  all  women  most  miserable.  A  mood  of  self-concen- 
tration was  settling  slowly  upon  her  like  an  inevitable  season 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  Day  by  day  a  dream  prophetic 
of  the  future  was  pictured  in  the  imagery  of  thought  till  it 
grew  familiar  as  an  often  looked  on  landscape  that  awakes  no 
wonder  and  no  strange  unrest.  The  ordinances  of  man  had 
thrust  on  her  a  damnable  tyranny,  and  she  was  more  than 
weary  of  the  restrictions  of  the  world.  The  inevitable 
scorn  of  custom  had  long  taken  hold  upon  her  being,  and 
she  had  been  driven  to  that  state  when  the  soul  founds  a 
republic  within  itself,  and  creates  its  ethics  from  the  prompt- 
ings of  the  heart. 

Uther  was  at  Caerleon ;  she  had  heard  the  truth  from 
many  a  peasant  tongue.  Caerleon  therefrom  drew  her 
with  magic  influence,  as  a  lamp  draws  a  golden  moth 
from  the  gloom,  or  the  light  in  the  night  sky  wings  on 
the  wild-fowl  with  the  prophecy  of  water.  Caerleon 
became  the  bourn  of  all  her  holier  thoughts  ;  strange 
city  of  magic,  it  held  love  and  hate  for  her,  desire  and 
obloquy ;  though  its  walls  were  as  a  luring  net  scin- 
tillant  with  spirit  gossamer,  her  very  reason  lulled  her 


256  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

fears  to  sleep,  and  turned  her  southwards  towards  Uskland 
and  the  sea. 

It  came  to  pass,  on  the  very  day  that  Uther  spoke  with 
Merlin  in  the  forest,  that  Igraine  rode  over  a  stretch  of  hills 
by  a  sheep-track,  and  came  down  into  a  valley  not  many 
leagues  from  Caerleon.  The  place  stood  thick  with  wood- 
land, ranged  tier  on  tier  with  the  peaked  bosses  of  huge 
trees.  That  impenetrable  mystery  of  solitude  that  abides 
where  forests  grow  was  deeply  hallowed  in  this  silent  dale. 
The  infinite  majesty  of  nature  had  cast  a  spell  there,  and 
the  vast  oaks,  like  pyramids  of  gloom,  caverned  a  silence 
that  was  utter  and  divine. 

Glimmering  beneath  the  huge,  stupendous  boughs, 
through  darkling  aisles  and  the  colossal  piers  that  held  the 
innumerable  roofing  of  the  leaves,  Igraine  passed  down 
through  umbrage  and  still  ecstasies  of  green,  by  colonnade 
and  gallery,  —  interminable  tunnels,  where  stray  light  struck 
slantwise  on  her  armour,  that  it  seemed  a  moving  lustre  in 
the  solemn  shade. 

Deep  in  the  woodland  lay  a  valley,  a  pastureland  girt 
round  with  trees,  and  where  the  meadows,  painted  thick 
with  flowers,  seemed  all  enamelled  white  and  azure,  green, 
purple,  pink,  and  gold.  A  peace  as  from  the  sun  shone 
over  it  like  saffron  mist.  A  pool  gleamed  there,  tranquil 
and  deep  with  shadows ;  all  the  trees  that  Britain  knew 
seemed  girdled  round  it  —  oak,  beech  and  holly,  yew,  thorn 
and  cedar,  the  elfin  pine,  the  larch,  whose  delicate  kirtle 
shames  even  broidery  of  silk.  No  sound  save  the  cuckoo's 
cry,  and  the  uncertain  twittering  of  birds,  disturbed  the 
sanctuary  of  that  forest  solitude. 

Igraine,  halting  on  the  brink  of  the  meadowland,  looked 
down  over  wood  and  water.  The  quiet  of  the  place,  the 
clear  glint  of  the  pool,  the  scent  of  the  meadows,  brought 
back  the  valley  in  Andredswold,  and  the  manor  in  the  mere. 
She  loved  the  place  on  the  instant.  Even  a  blue  plume  of 
smoke  rising  straight  to  the  sky,  and  the  grey-brown  backs 
of  a  few  sheep  in  the  meadows,  evidencing  as  they  did  the 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  2$  7 

proximity  of  man,  tailed  to  disenchant  the  solitary  grandeur 
of  the  scene. 

There  is  no  stable  perpetuation  of  peace  in  the  world ; 
care  treads  upon  the  heels  of  Mammon,  and  lust  lies  down 
by  the  side  of  love.  Even  in  the  quiet  of  the  wilderness 
the  hawk  chases  the  lark's  song  out  of  the  heavens,  and 
wind  scatters  the  bloom  from  the  budding  tree.  Thus  it 
was  that  Igraine,  watching  from  under  the  woods,  saw  the 
sheep  scampering  suddenly  in  the  meadows  as  though  dis- 
turbed by  something  as  yet  invisible  to  her  where  she  stood. 
Their  bleating  came  up  with  a  tinge  of  pathos,  to  be 
followed  by  a  sound  more  sinister,  the  cry  of  one  in  whom 
pain  and  terror  leapt  into  an  ecstasy  of  anguish  —  a  shrill, 
bird-like  scream  that  seemed  to  cleave  the  silence  like  the 
white  blade  of  a  sword.  Igraine's  horse  pricked  its  ears 
with  a  snort  of  wrath,  as  though  recognising  the  wounded 
cry  of  some  innocent  thing.  The  girl's  pulses  stirred  as  she 
scanned  the  valley  for  explanation  of  this  discord,  sudden 
as  the  sweep  of  a  falcon  from  the  blue.  Nor  was  she  long 
at  gaze.  A  flickering  speck  of  colour  appeared  in  the 
meadowlands,  the  figure  of  a  woman  running  through  the 
grass  like  a  hunted  rabbit,  darting  and  doubling  with  a 
whimpering  outcry.  Near  as  a  shadow  a  tall  streak  of 
brown  followed  at  full  stride,  terrible  even  in  miniature. 
Hunter  and  hunted  passed  before  the  eye  like  the  figures  of 
a  dream,  yet  with  a  fierce  realism  that  whelmed  self  in  an 
objective  pity. 

Never  did  Britomart  herself,  with  splendid  soul,  find  fitter 
cause  in  faerie-land  than  did  the  Knight  of  the  Cloven 
Heart  in  that  woodland  dale.  Igraine  rode  down  from  the 
trees,  a  burning  figure  of  chivalry  that  galloped  through  the 
green,  and  bore  fast  for  the  scudding  forms,  that  skirted 
round  the  pool.  Like  a  stag  pressed  to  despair,  the  hunted 
one  had  taken  to  the  water,  and  was  already  waist  deep  in 
ripples  that  seemed  to  catch  the  panic  of  the  moment. 
Plunging  on  past  tree  and  thicket,  Igraine  held  on,  while 
sheep  scattered  from  her,  to  turn  and  stare  with  the  stupidest 


258  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

of  white  faces  at  the  horse  thundering  over  the  meadows. 
The  pursuer  had  passed  the  water-weeds,  and  was  to  his 
knees  in  the  pool  when  the  Knight  of  the  Cloven  Heart 
came  down  to  the  bank  and  halted,  like  a  mailed  statue  of 
succouring  vengeance. 

The  white  heat  of  the  drama  seemed  cooled  for  the 
moment.  Over  the  flickering  scales  of  the  little  mere  the 
girl's  white  face,  tumbled  hair,  and  blue  smock  showed,  as 
she  half-floated  and  half-paddled  with  her  hands.  Nearer 
still,  the  leather-jerkined,  fur-breeched  figure  of  the  man 
bent  like  a  baffled  satyr  baulked  of  evil.  On  the  green 
slope  of  the  bank  the  mailed  splendour  of  chivalry  waited 
like  Justice  to  uphold  the  right. 

The  man  in  the  mere  wore  the  short  Roman  sword,  or 
parazonium  ;  any  more  effective  weapon  that  he  had  pos- 
sessed had  been  thrown  aside  in  the  heat  of  the  chase  and 
in  the  imagined  security  of  his  rough  person.  He  had  the 
face  of  a  wolf.  In  girth  and  stature  he  seemed  a  young 
Goliath,  a  savage  thing  bred  in  savage  times  and  savage 
places,  and  blessed  with  the  instincts  of  mere  barbarism. 
Igraine's  disrelish  equalled  her  heat  as  she  looked  at  him, 
and  slanted  her  great  sword  over  her  shoulder. 

In  another  instant  the  scene  revived,  and  ceased  to  be  a 
mere  picture.  The  girl  in  the  pool  had  found  a  footing, 
and  her  half-bare  shoulders  showed  above  the  water.  The 
man,  with  his  short  sword  held  behind  him,  was  splashing 
through  the  shallows  with  a  grin  on  his  hairy  face  that 
meant  mischief.  Igraine,  every  whit  as  hot  as  he,  held  her 
horse  well  in  hand,  and  put  her  shield  before  her.  Matters 
went  briskly  for  a  minute.  The  man  made  a  rush  ;  Igraine 
spurred  up  and  sent  him  reeling  with  the  charging  shoulder 
of  her  horse ;  the  short  sword  pecked  at  nothing,  the  long 
one  struck  home  and  drew  blood.  A  second  panther  leap, 
a  blow  turned  by  the  shield,  a  counter  cut  that  made  good 
carving  of  the  fellow's  skull.  The  shallows  foamed  and 
crackled  crimson  ;  hoofs  stirred  up  the  mire ;  a  plunge ;  a 
noise  of  crossed  steel ;  a  last  sweep  of  a  sword,  and  then 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  259 

victory.  Igraine's  horse,  neighing  out  the  spirit  of  the 
moment,  trampled  the  fallen  body  as  it  had  been  the  car- 
case of  a  slaughtered  dragon. 

The  girl  in  the  pool  waded  back  at  the  sight,  her  blue 
smock  clinging  about  her,  and  showing  an  opulent  grace  of 
shoulder,  arm,  and  bosom  —  a  full  figure  swept  by  the  damp 
tangle  of  her  dark  brown  hair.  She  had  full  red  lips,  eyes 
of  bright  blue,  a  round  and  ruddy  face,  that  told  of  a  mind 
more  for  tangible  pleasures  than  for  spiritual  aspiration.  She 
came  up  out  of  the  shallows  like  a  water-nymph,  her 
frightened  face  already  all  aglow  with  a  smile  of  gratitude, 
mild  shame,  and  infinite  reverence.  Going  down  on  her 
knees  amid  the  water-weeds  and  flags,  she  held  up  her 
playful  hands  as  to  a  deliverer  direct  from  heaven.  "  Grace, 
Lord,  for  thy  servant." 

With  the  peril  past,  Igraine  could  not  forego  the  sly 
scrap  of  mischief  that  the  occasion  offered ;  her  white 
teeth  gleamed  in  a  smile  under  her  helmet,  as  she  wiped 
her  sword  on  the  horse's  mane,  before  sheathing  it. 

"  Give  Heaven  thy  thanks,"  she  said,  with  a  quaint 
sententiousness  of  gesture.  "  Be  sure  in  thy  heart  that  it 
was  a  mere  providence  of  God  that  I  heard  thy  screaming. 
As  for  yon  clod  of  clay,  we  will  bury  it  later,  lest  it  should 
pollute  so  goodly  a  pool.  For  the  rest,  child,  I  am  an  old 
man,  and  hungry,  and  would  taste  bread." 

The  girl  jumped  up  instantly,  with  a  shallow  and  half- 
puzzled  smile.  The  voice  from  the  helmet  was  young,  very 
young,  and  full  of  the  free  tone  of  youth  ;  yet  both  manner 
and  matter  were  sage,  practical,  leavened  with  a  hoary- 
headedness  of  intention  that  seemed  to  baulk  the  inferences 
suggested  by  such  panoply  of  arms.  With  a  bob  of  a 
curtsey,  she  took  the  knight's  bridle,  and  led  the  horse 
some  fifty  paces  round  the  pool,  where,  under  the  imminent 
shoulder  of  a  cedar  tree,  a  little  cabin  nestled  under  a  hood 
of  ivy.  It  was  built  of  rough  timber  from  the  forest,  and 
thatched  with  reeds ;  honeysuckle  clustered  over  its  rude 
facade,  and  thrust  fragrant  tendrils  into  its  reed-latticed 


260  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

windows,  where  an  early  rose  or  so  shone  like  a  red  star 
against  the  russet-wood.  A  garden  full  of  flowers  lay  before 
the  rustic  porch  that  arched  the  threshold ;  and  an  out- 
jutting  of  the  pool  brought  a  little  fiord  of  dusky  silver  up 
to  the  very  green  of  the  path,  a  streak  of  silver  blazoned 
with  violet  flags,  golden  marigolds  of  the  marsh,  and  a  lace- 
like  fringe  of  snowy  water-weed  in  bloom.  All  around, 
the  great  trees,  those  solemn  senators,  stood  with  their  green 
shoulders  bowed  in  a  strong  dream  of  deep  eternal  thought. 

Igraine  left  the  saddle  and  suffered  the  girl  to  tether  her 
horse  to  a  cedar  bough.  Her  surcoat  of  violet  and  gold 
swept  nearly  to  her  ankles,  and  saved  from  any  marring  the 
infinite  art  of  the  anomaly  that  veiled  her  sex.  Her  man's 
garb  seemed  every  whit  as  worthy  of  a  woman,  nor  did  it 
hinder  that  loving  grace  that  made  her  beauty  of  body  the 
more  admirable  and  rare. 

The  girl  came  back  with  more  bendings  of  the  knee,  and 
led  Igraine  amid  the  flowers  to  the  porch  of  the  forest 
dwelling.  Once  within,  she  drew  a  settle  close  to  the 
doorway,  spread  a  rug  of  skins  thereon,  and  again  bowed 
herself  in  homage. 

"Let  my  lord  be  seated,  and  I  will  serve  him." 

"  I  am  hungry,  child  ;  but  first  put  off  that  wet  smock  of 
thine." 

The  girl  crept  behind  the  door  of  a  great  cupboard, 
with  a  blush  of  colour  in  her  cheeks.  Cloth  rustled  for  a 
moment ;  a  circle  of  blue  and  a  slim  pair  of  legs  showed 
beneath  the  cupboard  door  ;  soon  she  was  back  again  in  a 
gown  of  apple  green,  fastening  it  with  her  fingers  over  the 
full  swell  of  her  bosom. 

"  What  will  my  lord  eat  ?  " 

"  What  you  have,  child." 

"  Bread  and  dried  fruit,  the  flesh  of  a  kid,  new  milk  and 
cheese,  a  little  cider." 

"  Give  me  milk,  child,  a  mere  flake  of  meat,  some  cheese 
and  bread,  and  I  ask  nothing  more.  I  will  pay  you  for  all 
I  take." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  26 1 

"  Lord,  how  should  you  pay  me,  when  I  owe  more  than 
life  to  your  sword  ?  " 

The  little  shepherdess  went  about  her  business  with  a 
barefooted  tread,  soft  as  any  cat's.  The  cottage  proved  a 
wonder  of  a  place.  The  great  cupboard  disgorged  a  silver- 
rimmed  horn,  wooden  platter,  a  napkin  white  as  apple 
blossom,  red  fruit  piled  up  in  a  brazen  bowl.  The  girl  set 
the  things  in  order  on  the  table,  with  an  occasional  curious 
look  stolen  at  the  figure  in  mail  on  the  settle  —  splendid 
visitant  in  so  humble  a  place.  And  what  a  rich  voice  the 
knight  had,  —  how  mellow,  with  its  many  modulations  of 
tone.  His  hands  too  were  wonderfully  shapen,  fingers 
long  and  tapering,  with  nails  pink  as  sea-shells.  There 
surely  must  be  a  face  worth  gazing  at,  for  its  very  nobility, 
under  that  great  brazen  helmet  that  glinted  in  the  half 
light  of  the  room. 

The  meal  was  spread,  but  the  guest  still  unprepared. 
The  forest  child  dropped  a  curtsey,  and  a  mild  suggestion 
that  the  knight  should  make  a  beginning. 

"  Will  not  my  lord  unhelm  ?  " 

A  rich,  mischief-loving  laugh  startled  her  for  answer. 

"  Child,  take  the  thing  off  if  you  will." 

The  little  shepherdess  obeyed,  and  nearly  dropped  the 
helmet  in  the  doing  of  it.  A  mass  of  gold  fell  rippling 
down  over  the  violet  surcoat ;  a  pair  of  deep  eyes  looked 
up  with  a  sparkling  laugh  ;  a  satin  upper  lip  and  chin  gave 
the  lie  to  the  nether  part  of  the  picture. 

"  Christ  Jesu  !  "  quoth  the  girl  with  the  helmet,  and  again 
"  Christ  Jesu,"  as  though  she  could  get  no  further. 

Igraine  caught  her  smock  and  drew  her  nearer. 

u  Come,  little  sister,  kiss  me  for  — c  thank  you.' ': 

With  a  contradictory  impulse  the  girl  fell  down  on  her 
knees  and  began  to  cry,  with  her  brown  hair  tumbled  in 
Igraine's  lap. 

When  persuasion  and  comforting  had  quieted  her  some- 
what, she  sat  on  the  floor  at  Igraine's  feet,  her  round  eyes 
big  with  an  unstinted  wonder.  Even  Igraine's  hunger  and 


262  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

the  devoir  done  upon  the  new  milk  could  hardly  persuade  the 
girl  that  this  being  in  armour  was  no  saint,  but  a  very  real 
and  warm-blooded  woman.  She  even  touched  Igraine's 
fingers  with  her  lips,  to  satisfy  herself  as  to  the  warmth 
and  solidity  of  the  slim  strong  hand.  She  had  never  heard 
of  such  a  marvel,  a  woman,  and  a  very  beautiful  woman, 
riding  out  as  a  man,  and  doing  man's  bravest  work  with 
courage  and  cleverness.  The  girl  made  sure  in  her  heart 
that  Igraine  was  some  princess  at  least,  who  had  been  blessed 
with  miraculous  power  by  reason  of  her  maidenhood  and 
the  magic  innocence  of  her  mind. 

Igraine  talked  to  the  girl  and  soon  began  to  win  her  to 
less  devotional  attitude  with  that  graciousness  of  manner 
that  became  her  so  well  at  such  a  season.  She  forgot  her- 
self for  the  time,  in  listening  to  this  child  of  solitude.  The 
girl's  father  —  an  old  man  —  had  died  two  winters  ago,  and 
she  had  buried  him  with  her  own  hands,  under  a  tree  in  the 
dale.  Since  his  death,  she  had  lived  on  in  the  cabin,  alone, 
a  forest  child  nurtured  in  forest  law.  Every  Sabbath, 
Renan,  a  shepherd  lad  in  a  lord's  service,  would  come  over 
the  hills  and  pass  the  day  with  her.  They  were  betrothed, 
and  the  lord  of  those  parts  had  promised  Renan  freedom 
next  Christmastide ;  then  Renan  and  Garlotte  were  to  be 
married,  and  the  cabin  in  the  dale  was  to  serve  them  as  a 
home. 

Garlotte  was  soon  chattering  like  any  child.  She  talked 
to  Igraine  of  her  sheep  and  goats,  her  little  corn-field  on  a 
sunny  slope,  her  garden,  her  wild  strawberry  beds  and  vine, 
her  fruit  trees,  and  her  marigolds.  The  lad  Renan,  bronze- 
haired  and  brown-eyed,  sprang  in  here  and  there  with  irre- 
sistible romance.  He  could  run  like  a  hound,  swim  like 
an  otter,  fish,  shoot  with  the  bow,  and  throw  the  javelin  a 
great  many  paces.  He  had  such  eyes,  too,  and  such  gentle 
hands.  Igraine's  sympathies  were  quick  and  vivid  on  mat- 
ters of  the  kind.  The  girl's  head  was  resting  against  her 
knees  before  an  hour  had  gone. 

The  evening  was  still  and   sultry  and   the  sky  overcast. 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  263 

When  Igraine  went  to  the  porch  after  supper,  rain  had  begun 
to  fall,  and  there  was  the  moist  murmur  of  a  heavy,  windless 
shower  through  all  the  valley.  The  sheep  had  huddled  under 
the  trees.  Infinite  freshness,  unutterable  peace,  brooded 
over  the  green  meadows  and  the  breathless  leaf-clouds  of  the 
woods.  For  all  the  sweet,  dewy  silence  a  bitter  discontent 
lay  heavy  upon  Igraine's  heart,  and  woe  made  quiet  moan  in 
her  inmost  soul.  Green  summer  swooned  in  the  branches 
and  breathed  in  the  odours  of  honeysuckle,  musk,  and  rose, 
yet  for  her  there  seemed  no  burgeoning,  no  bursting  of  the 
heart  into  song. 

The  girl  Garlotte  stood  by  and  looked  with  a  quaint  awe 
into  the  proud,  wistful  face. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  lady  ?  "  she  said. 

Igraine's  lips  quivered. 

"  Of  many  things,  child." 

"  Tell  me  of  them." 

"  What  should  you  know,  child,  of  plagues  and  sorrow, 
of  misery  in  high  places,  of  despair  coroneted  with  gold,  of 
hearts  that  ache,  and  eyes  that  burn  for  the  love  of  the 
world  that  never  comes  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  ignorant,  dear  lady,  but  yet  I  think  you  are 
not  happy." 

"  Is  any  woman  happy  on  earth  ?  " 

"  Yet  you  are  so  good  and  beautiful." 

"  Child,  child,  beauty  brings  more  misery  than  joy  ;  it  is 
a  bright  fire  that  burns  upon  itself." 

"  Renan  has  told  me  I  am  beautiful." 

"  So  you  are,  and  to  Renan." 

"  I  never  think  of  it,  lady,  save  when  Renan  looks  into 
my  eyes  and  touches  my  mouth  with  his  lips  ;  then  say  in 
my  heart,  1 1  am  beautiful,  and  Renan  loves  me,  God  be 
thanked ! ' " 

The  words  echoed  into  Igraine's  soul.  There  was  such 
pain  in  her  great  eyes  that  the  girl  was  startled  from  the 
simple  contemplation  of  her  own  affairs  of  heart. 

"  You  are  sad,  lady." 


264  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Child,  I  am  tired  to  death." 

"  Bide  with  me  and  rest.  See,  I  will  feed  your  horse 
and  give  him  water  ;  he  will  do  famously  under  the  tree. 
There  is  my  bed  yonder  in  the  corner  ;  I  spread  a  clean  sheet 
on  it  this  very  morning.  Shall  I  help  you  to  unarm  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  child.      How  the  rain  hisses  into  the  pool." 

"  I  love  the  sound,  and  the  soft  rattle  on  the  green  leaves. 
All  will  be  fresh  and  aglister  to-morrow,  and  the  flowers 
will  smile,  and  the  trees  shake  their  heads  and  laugh.  How 
clumsy  my  ringers  are  ;  I  am  so  slow  over  the  buckles ; 
ah !  there  is  the  last.  I  will  put  the  sword  and  the  shield 
by  the  bed.  Shall  we  say  our  prayers  ? " 

"  You  pray,  child ;  I  have  forgotten  how  to  these  many 
months." 


VIII 

THERE  is  a  charm  in  simplicity  of  soul,  and  in  sympathies 
green  in  the  first  rich  burgeoning  of  the  mind,  unshrivelled 
and  untainted  by  the  miserable  misanthropies  of  the  world. 
The  girl  Garlotte  was  as  ignorant  as  you  will,  but  she  loved 
God,  had  the  heart  of  a  thrush  in  spring-time,  and  was  pos- 
sessed naturally  of  a  warm  and  delicate  appreciation  of  the 
feelings  of  others  that  would  have  put  to  utter  shame  the 
majority  of  court  ladies. 

Women  of  a  certain  gilded  class  are  prone  to  judge  by 
superficialities.  Living  often  in  an  artificial  air  of  courtesy, 
the  very  life  about  them  is  a  cultured,  perfumed  atmosphere 
unstirred  by  the  deeper  wind-throbs  of  true  passion,  or  the 
solemn  sweep  of  the  more  grand  emotions.  Hypocrisy, 
veneered  with  mannerisms,  propped  with  etiquette,  pegged 
up  with  gold,  passes  for  culture  and  the  badge-royal  of  fine 
breeding.  Of  such  things  the  girl  Garlotte  was  indeed 
flagrantly  ignorant ;  she  had  lived  in  solitudes,  and  had 
learnt  to  comprehend  dumb  things  —  the  cry  of  a  sheep  in 
pain,  the  mute  look  from  the  eyes  of  a  sick  lamb.  Her  life 


THE  WAR  IK  WALES  26$ 

had  made  her  quick  to  see,  quick  to  discover.  She  had  all 
the  latent  energy  of  a  child,  and  her  senses  were  the  unde- 
bauched  handmaids  of  an  honest  heart.  She  knew  nothing 
of  the  trivial  prides,  the  starched  and  petty  arrogances,  the 
small  self-satisfactions,  that  build  up  the  customs  of  the 
so-called  cultured  folk.  She  thought  her  thoughts,  and 
they  were  generous  ones,  mark  you,  and  spoke  out  on 
the  instant  without  fear,  as  one  whose  words  were  in 
very  truth  the  audible  counterpart  of  the  vibrations  of  her 
mind. 

To  Igraine  at  first  there  was  some  embarrassment  in  the 
ingenuous  methods  of  this  child  of  the  forest.  It  was  in 
measure  disturbing  to  be  confronted  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes 
that  looked  at  one  like  two  pools  of  truth,  and  a  pair  of  lips 
that  naively  remarked  :  "  You  seem  pale,  lady,  and  in  pain  ; 
you  slept  little,  and  talked  even  when  you  slept.  I  am  rosy 
and  cheerful,  and  I  sleep  from  dusk  till  dawn.  What  is 
there  in  your  heart  that  is  not  in  mine  ?  "  Still,  with  the 
abruptness  once  essayed,  there  was  a  refreshing  sincerity  in 
Garlotte's  openness  of  heart.  It  was  as  the  first  plunge  into 
a  clear,  cool  pool  —  a  gasp  at  the  first  moment,  then  infinite 
warmth,  intense  kindling  of  all  the  senses,  with  the  clean 
ripples  bubbling  at  the  lips  and  the  swinging  water  buoy- 
ing up  the  bosom.  Garlotte  recalled  Lilith  —  Radamanth's 
daughter  —  to  Igraine,  only  that  she  had  more  penetration, 
more  liberty  of  thought  and  character.  The  one  was  as  a 
warm  wind  that  lulled,  the  other  a  breeze  blowing  over  open 
water —  clean,  invigorating,  kind. 

Igraine's  mood  of  unrest  found  refuge  in  the  valley,  and 
in  Garlotte's  cottage.  She  won  some  measure  of  inward 
calmness  in  the  simple  life,  the  simple  tasks,  that  kept  the 
more  sinister  energies  of  the  mind  at  bay.  It  contented  her 
for  a  season  with  its  companionship,  its  air  of  home,  its  green 
quiet  and  tranquil  beauty.  Garlotte's  cheerfulness  of  soul, 
like  some  penetrating  essence,  suffused  itself  upon  Igraine, 
despite  the  militant  savour  of  things  more  turbulent.  She 
fell  into  temporary  contentment  almost  against  her  will, 


266  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

even  as  sleep  enforces  itself  upon  a  brain  extravagantly 
possessed  by  the  delirium  of  fever. 

For  all  the  quiet  of  the  place,  circumstances  were  gath- 
ering and  moving  down  upon  her  with  that  ghostly  and 
inevitable  fatefulness  that  constitutes  true  tragedy.  No  one 
could  have  seemed  more  hidden  from  the  eye  of  fate  than 
she  in  the  deep  umbrage  of  the  trees,  yet  often  when  the 
heart  imagines  itself  most  secure  from  the  factious  meddling 
of  the  world,  the  far,  faint  cry  of  destiny  smites  on  the  ear 
like  some  sudden  stirring  of  a  wind  at  night. 

It  was  late  evening,  on  the  fifth  day  of  Igraine's  sojourn 
in  the  valley.  The  day  had  been  dull,  grey,  and  colourless, 
wrapped  in  a  blue  haze  of  rain  that  had  fallen  heavily, 
drenching  the  woods  and  making  monotonous  music  on  the 
water.  Towards  evening  the  sky  had  melted  to  a  serene 
azure ;  the  air  was  a  web  of  shimmering  amber,  the  west 
streamed  through  a  mist  of  gold,  and  every  leaf  glittered 
with  dew.  A  luminous  vapour  hovered  over  the  little  mere, 
and  there  were  rain  pools  in  the  meadows  that  burnt  with 
a  hundred  sunsets  like  clear  brass. 

Garlotte  and  Igraine  had  been  bathing  in  the  mere. 
They  had  come  up  from  the  water  to  dry  themselves  upon 
a  napkin  of  white  cloth,  the  bronze-gold  and  brown  hair  of 
each  meeting  like  twin  clouds,  while  their  linen  lay  like 
snow  on  the  trailing  branches  of  a  tree  near  the  pool. 
Their  limbs  and  shoulders  gleamed  against  the  silver-black 
mirror  spread  by  the  mere  ;  their  voices  made  a  mellow 
sound  through  the  valley  as  they  talked.  Igraine  had 
fastened  her  violet  surcoat  about  her  beneath  her  breasts ; 
Garlotte's  blue  smock  still  hung  from  a  branch  above  her 
head. 

As  they  sat  under  the  tree,  drying  their  hair  and  looking 
over  the  pool  to  the  forest  realm  beyond,  Igraine  told  the 
girl  much  of  the  outer  world  as  she  had  seen  it ;  nor  was 
her  instruction  unleavened  by  a  certain  measure  of  cynicism 
—  a  bitterness  that  surprised  Garlotte  not  a  little.  The 
girl  had  great  dreams  of  the  glories  of  old  cities,'  the 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  267 

splendour  of  court  life,  the  zest  of  a  mere  material 
existence. 

"  You  do  not  love  the  great  world,"  she  said. 

"  Once,  child,  I  did.  Everything  outside  a  convent  wall 
seemed  good  to  me ;  I  thought  men  heroes,  and  the  world 
a  faerie  place ;  who  has  not  !  Thoughts  change  with 
time :  that  which  I  once  hungered  for,  now  I  despise." 

"  I  have  never  been  into  a  grqat  city,  not  even  into 
Caerleon.  My  father  loved  the  country  and  said  it  was 
God's  pasture." 

"I  would  rather  have  a  dog  for  a  friend  than  most  men, 
child.  Man  is  always  thinking  of  his  stomach,  his  strength, 
or  his  passion ;  he  is  vain,  dull,  and  surly  often ;  takes  de- 
light in  slaying  dumb  things ;  drinks  beer,  and  sleeps  like 
a  log  save  for  his  snoring." 

"  But  Renan  doesn't." 

"  There  are  some  men,  child,  among  the  swine." 

"  And  the  women  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  good  women." 

"  In  the  convent  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  there  they  were  good,  just  as  stones  that  lie 
in  the  grass  are  good  in  that  they  do  very  little  harm." 

"  But  they  served  God  !  " 

"  Mere  habit,  just  as  you  eat  your  dinner." 

"  A  hard  saying." 

"  Your  sayings  would  be  hard,  child,  if  you  had  learnt 
what  I  have  learnt  of  the  world." 

Garlotte  pulled  her  blue  smock  from  the  tree  and  wrapped 
it  round  her  shoulders. 

u  But  you  love  God  ?  "  she  said. 

"  What  is  God  ?  " 

"  The  Great  Father  who  loves  all  things." 

"  Methinks  then  I  am  nothing." 

"  Nothing,  Igraine  ?  " 

"You  say  God  loves  all  men  and  women.  Why,  then, 
have  I  been  cursed  with  perversities  ever  since  I  was  born, 
tormented  with  contradictions,  baffled,  and  mocked,  till  the 


268  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

eternal  trivialities  of  life  now  make  my  soul  sick  in  my 
body  ?  " 

"  Sorrow  is  heaven  sent  to  chasten,  just  as  rain  freshens 
the  leaves." 

"Old,  old  proverb.  Rain  comes  from,  clouds;  clouds 
hide  the  sun  ;  how  can  sorrow  be  good,  child,  when  it 
darkens  the  light  of  life,  hides  God  from  the  heart,  and 
makes  the  soul  bitter  ? " 

"  That  seems  the  wrong  spirit,  Igraine." 

"  So  meek  folk  say ;  we  are  not  all  mild  earth  to  be 
smitten  and  make  no  moan.  There  are  sea-spirits  that  lash 
and  foam,  fire-spirits  that  leap  and  burn.  My  spirit  is  of 
the  flame  ;  am  I  to  be  cursed,  then,  because  I  was  born  with 
a  soul  of  fire  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  answer  all  this,  Igraine." 

"  I  hate  to  bow  down  blindly,  to  cast  ashes  on  the  head 
because  a  superstition  bids  us  so." 

"  I  have  faith  !  " 

"  I  cannot  see  with  my  heart." 

"  I  would  you  could,  Igraine." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right." 

Garlotte  put  on  her  shift  and  frock  with  a  sigh,  and 
straightway  went  and  kissed  Igraine  on  the  forehead.  They 
sat  close  together  under  the  tree  and  watched  the  valley 
grow  dim  as  death,  and  the  pool  black  and  lustrous  as  a 
mirror  turned  to  the  twilight.  Garlotte's  warm  heart  was 
yearning  to  Igraine;  her  arm  was  close  about  her,  and 
presently  Igraine's  head  rested  upon  her  shoulder.  She 
began  to  tell  the  girl  many  things  in  a  still,  stifled  voice  ; 
her  bitterness  gushed  out  like  fermented  wine,  and  for  a 
season  she  was  comforted  —  with  no  lasting  balm  indeed,  for 
there  was  but  one  soul  in  the  world  that  could  give  her 
that. 

"  Believe,  Igraine,  believe,"  said  Garlotte  very  softly. 

"Believe  —  child!" 

"  That  there  is  good  for  every  one  in  the  world  if  we 
wait  and  watch  in  patience." 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  269 

"  I  seem  to  have  watched  years  go  by,  and  life  stretches 
out  from  me  as  a  sea  at  night." 

"  Look  not  there,  Igraine,  but  into  your  own  heart  and 
into  the  gold  of  faith." 

"  I  have  no  heart  to  look  to,  child." 

"  Save  into  a  man's.     And  it  was  a  good  heart." 

"  Good  as  a  god's." 

"  Then  look  into  it  still." 

"  You  speak  like  a  mother." 

They  had  talked  on  into  the  dusk  of  night,  forgetful  of 
time,  hearing  only  the  dripping  from  the .  leaves,  seeing 
nothing  but  the  short  stretch  of  water  and  herbage  at  their 
feet.  Yet  an  hour  ago  a  figure  in  a  palmer's  cloak  and  cowl 
had  come  out  from  the  western  forest  and  stood  leaning 
upon  its  staff,  to  stare  out  broodingly  over  the  valley.  The 
laurel  green  of  the  man's  cloak  harmonised  so  magically 
with  the  green  of  grass  and  tree  that  it  was  difficult  to  iso- 
late his  figure  from  the  framing  of  wood  and  meadow. 

The  pilgrim  had  stood  long  in  the  shadows  and  watched 
the  two  white  forms  come  up  out  of  the  waters  of  the  pool. 
He  had  seen  them  sit  and  dry  their  hair  under  the  tree  as 
the  dusk  crept  down.  While  they  talked  he  had  passed 
down  towards  the  cottage,  accompliced  by  the  trees,  slipping 
from  trunk  to  trunk,  to  enter  the  cottage  itself  while  the 
girls'  faces  were  turned  from  it  towards  the  pool.  From  one 
of  the  narrow  casements  his  cowled  face  had  looked  out ;  he 
had  marked  Igraine's  red  gold  shimmering  hair;  he  had 
seen  her  face  for  a  moment,  also  the  shield  hanging  in  the 
room  with  its  cloven  heart  and  white  lilies,  the  sword  and 
helmet,  the  harness  of  workmanship  so  subtle.  When  he 
had  seen  all  this  he  had  stolen  out  again  into  the  gloaming, 
a  thin  gliding  streak  of  green  under  the  gnarled  thorns  and 
the  night-bosomed  cedars.  The  forest  had  taken  him  to 
its  depths  again  and  the  unutterable  silence  of  its  shades. 
The  girls  by  the  pool  had  heard  no  sound,  nor  dreamt  of 
the  thing  that  had  been  so  near,  watching  like  a  veritable 
ghost  through  the  mist  of  the  mere's  twilight. 


2/0  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Caerleon  slept  under  the  moon,  a  dream  city  in  a  land  of 
dreams.  Its  walls  were  like  ivory  in  a  dark  gloom  of  green. 
The  tower  of  the  palace  of  the  king  caught  a  coronet  from 
the  stars,  while  in  the  window  of  an  upper  room  a  thin  flame 
flickered  like  a  yellow  rose  blown  athwart  the  black  foliage 
of  the  night.  Within  blood-red  curtains  breathed  over  the 
arched  door ;  a  little  altar  stood  against  the  eastern  wall, 
guarded  above  by  angels  haloed  with  gold,  standing  in  a  mist 
of  lilies  with  wings  of  crimson  and  green.  The  silence  of 
the  hour  seemed  embalmed  in  silver  —  so  pure,  so  still,  so 
hallowed  was  it. 

Uther  knelt  before  the  little  altar  in  prayer;  the  light 
from  the  single  lamp  slanted  down  upon  him,  but  left  his 
face  in  the  shadow.  It  was  past  midnight,  yet  the  man's 
head  was  still  bowed  down  in  his  devotion.  He  was  in  an 
ecstasy  of  spiritual  ascent  to  heaven,  a  mood  that  made  the 
world  a  Patmos,  and  his  own  soul  a  revelation  to  itself.  At 
such  a  time  his  imagination  could  mount  with  a  mystery  of 
poetic  rapture.  Angels  drumming  on  golden  bells  or  bearing 
diamond  chalices  of  purple  wine  seemed  to  gaze  deep-eyed 
on  him  from  a  paradise  of  snow  and  amethyst.  Above  all 
shone  the  Eternal  Face,  that  clear  sun  of  Christendom  shin- 
ing with  wounded  love  through  the  crimson  transgressions 
of  mankind. 

Deliberate  footfalls  and  the  rustle  of  a  drawn  curtain 
intervened  between  solitude  and  devotion.  The  curtain  fell 
again  ;  footfalls  echoed  away  to  die  down  into  a  well  of 
silence;  a  tall  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  stood  motionless  in 
the  oratory.  Uther,  still  upon  his  knees,  turned  to  the 
window  and  the  moonlight,  with  big  prayerful  eyes  that 
questioned  the  intruding  figure. 

"  Merlin,"  he  said,  with  a  breath  of  prophecy. 

"  Even  so,  sire." 

"  I  was  praying  but  now  for  such  a  thing." 

u  Sire,  pray  no  longer.      I  have  kept  my  tryst." 

Uther  rose  up  straightway  from  before  the  altar  and  stood 
before  the  square  of  the  casement.  The  moonlight  made  a 


THE   WAR  IN  IV ALES  271 

halo  of  his  hair,  and  lit  his  face  with  a  whiteness  that  seemed 
almost  supernatural.  Strong  as  he  was,  his  hands  shook  like 
aspen  leaves ;  his  lips  were  parted,  and  his  eyes  wide  with 
the  shadow  of  the  night.  Merlin  stood  in  the  dark  angle  of 
the  room ;  his  voice  seemed  to  come  as  from  a  tomb ;  the 
single  lamp  flame  shook  and  quivered  in  a  fickle  draught. 

"  Sire,  the  moon  is  not  yet  full." 

"  And  Igraine  ?  " 

"  Sire." 

«  Where  ? " 

"  Suffer  me,  sire,  a  moment." 

u  Speak  quickly.  God  knows,  I  have  prayed  like  a 
Samson." 

Merlin  cast  his  mantle  from  him,  and  stood  out  in  the 
moonlight  wrapped  in  the  mystic  symbolism  of  his  robe. 
Sapphire  and  emerald,  ruby  and  sardonyx,  flashed  with  a 
ghostly  gleam  in  the  pale  light,  and  caught  the  moonbeams 
in  their  folds.  Merlin's  thin  hands  quivered  like  a  spray  of 
May  blossom  waving  in  the  night  wind,  and  his  eyes  were 
like  the  eyes  of  a  leopard. 

"  Sire,  thou  wert  Pelleas  onco." 

"  I  should  remember  it." 

"  Thou  art  Pelleas  again." 

"  Again  ?  " 

"  In  thy  red  harness  with  thy  painted  shield,  thy  black 
horse ;  take  them  all." 

"  The  past  rushes  back  like  dawn." 

"  Near  Caerleon  lies  a  valley." 

"  There  are  twenty  valleys." 

"  Go  north,  sire,  in  thought.  Pass  the  Cross  on  Beacon 
Hill,  hold  on  for  the  Abbey  of  the  Blessed  Mary,  take  to  the 
hills,  go  by  a  ruined  tower,  ford  Usk,  where  there  is  a  hermit- 
age. Pass  through  a  waste,  cross  more  hills,  go  down  into 
a  valley  that  runs  north  and  south." 

"  I  follow." 

u  Go  alone,  sire." 

"  Alone." 


2/2  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  The  valley  is  piled  steep  with  forestland.  Go  down 
and  fear  not.  In  the  valley's  lap  lie  meadowlands,  a  pool, 
a  cottage.  In  that  cottage  you  shall  find  a  knight ;  his 
armour  is  gilded  gold,  his  horse  a  grey,  his  shield  shows  a 
cloven  heart  set  amid  white  lilies.  Speak  with  that  knight." 

"  Yet  more  !  " 

"  Speak  with  that  knight,  sire." 

"  In  peace  ?  " 

"  If  you  love  your  soul." 

"  And  Igraine  —  Merlin,  what  of  her  ?  " 

"  That  knight  shall  lead  you  to  her.     Sire,  I  have  said." 


IX 

IT  was  early  and  a  clear  dewy  morning  when  Uther  rode 
down  alone  from  the  palace  by  a  narrow  track  that  curled 
through  the  shrubberies  clothing  the  palace  hill.  A 
generous  sky  piled  its  blue  dome  with  mountainous  clouds 
that  billowed  up  above  the  horizon.  The  laurels  in  the 
shrubbery  flickered  their  leaves  like  innumerable  scales  of 
silver  in  the  sun  ;  amber  sun  rays  slanted  through  the  dense 
branches  of  the  yews,  and  flashed  on  the  red  harness  that 
burnt  down  the  winding  track.  The  wind  sang,  the  green 
larches  tossed  their  'kerchiefs,  in  the  distance  the  sea 
glimmered  to  the  white  frescoes  of  the  sky. 

Uther —  Pelleas  once  more  —  tossed  his  spear  to  the  tall 
trees,  and  burst  into  the  brave  swing  of  a  chant  d*  amour. 
With  caracole  and  flapping  mane  his  horse  took  his  lord's 
humour.  It  was  weather  to  live  and  love  in,  weather  for 
red  lips  and  the  clouding  down  of  perfumed  hair.  God  and 
the  Saints  —  what  a  grand  thing  to  be  strong,  to  have  a  clean 
heart  to  show  to  a  woman's  eyes  !  What  were  all  the 
baser  fevers  of  life  balanced  against  the  splendid  madness  of 
a  great  passion  ! 

Down  through  Caerleon's  streets  he  rode  unknown  of 
any  on  his  tall  black  horse.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  unthroned 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  273 

for  once,  and  to  put  a  kingdom  from  off  his  shoulders. 
With  what  a  swing  the  good  beast  carried  him,  how  the 
towers  and  turrets  danced  in  the  sun,  how  bright  were  the 
eyes  of  the  women  who  passed  him  by.  All  the  world 
seemed  greener,  the  sky  bluer,  the  city  merrier ;  the 
laughter  of  the  children  in  the  gutter  echoed  out  of  heaven; 
the  old  hag  who  sold  golden  lemons  under  a  beech  tree 
seemed  almost  a  madonna  —  a  being  from  a  better  world. 
Uther  laughed  in  his  heart,  and  blessed  God  and  Merlin. 

It  is  one  of  the  rare  reflections  of  philosophy  dear  to  the 
contemplative  mind,  how  joy  jostles  pain  in  the  world,  and 
pleasure  in  gold  and  scarlet  elbows  the  grey-cloaked  form  of 
grief.  Even  innocent  merriment  may  throw  a  rose  in  the 
face  of  one  who  mourns,  innocent  indeed  of  the  desire  to 
mock.  The  throstle  sings  in  the  tree  while  the  beggar  lies 
under  it  dying.  So  Uther  the  King  flashed  hate  in  the  eyes 
of  one  who  watched,  —  knowing  him  only  that  morning 
as  Pelleas  the  knight.  In  an  old  play  the  jealous  man  saw 
the  devil  ride  by,  and  promptly  followed  him  on  the  chance 
of  finding  his  lost  wife,  deeming,  indeed,  the  devil's  guid- 
ance propitious  for  such  a  quest. 

It  was  the  shield  that  caught  Gorlois's  eye  as  he  stood 
on  a  balcony  of  his  house  and  looked  out  over  Caerleon. 
The  device  smote  him  sudden  as  the  lash  of  a  whip.  The 
red  harness,  the  black  horse,  the  painted  shield,  mingled  a 
picture  that  burnt  into  his  brain  with  a  vividness  that  passed 
comprehension.  He  knew  well  enough  to  whom  such 
arms  should  belong ;  had  he  not  carried  them  fraudulently 
to  his  own  doubtful  profit  ?  This  knight  must  be  that 
Pelleas  whose  past  had  worked  such  mischief  with  his  own 
machinations,  that  Pelleas  who  had  won  Igraine  the  novice 
fresh  from  the  shadow  of  her  convent  trees.  Gorlois 
watched  the  man  go  by  with  a  kind  of  superhuman  envy 
twisting  in  him  like  a  colic.  The  smart  of  it  made  him 
stiffen,  go  pale,  gnaw  his  lip. 

If  this  was  the  knight  Pelleas,  what  then  ?  Gorlois 
could  not  reason  for  the  moment ;  his  brain  seemed  a  mass 


274  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

of  molten  metal  in  a  bowl  of  iron.  Convictions  settled 
slowly,  hardened  and  took  form.  Igraine  had  loved  the  man 
Pelleas  ;  Igraine  was  his  wife  ;  he  had  lost  her  and  Brastias 
also ;  poison  and  the  sword  waited  to  do  their  work. 
Supposing  then  this  Pelleas  was  in  quest  of  Igraine  ;  suppos- 
ing they  had  come  to  know  each  other  again  ;  supposing 
Brastias  and  Pelleas  were  one  and  the  same  man.  Hell  and 
furies  —  what  a  thought  was  this  !  It  goaded  Gorlois  into 
action.  He  would  ride  after  the  man,  hunt  him,  track  him, 
in  hope  of  some  fragment  of  the  truth.  Hazard  and  hate, 
blood  and  battle,  these  were  more  welcome  than  chafing 
within  walls  as  in  a  cage,  or  frying  on  a  bed  as  on  a  gridiron, 

Gorlois's  voice  rang  through  gallery  and  hall  like  a 
battle-cry. 

"  Ho,  there  !  —  my  sword  and  harness." 

There  was  a  grimness  in  the  sound  that  made  those  who 
came  to  arm  him  bustle  for  dear  life.  They  knew  his 
black,  furious  humour,  the  hand  that  struck  like  a  mace, 
the  tyranny  that  took  blood  for  trifles.  The  stoutest  of 
them  were  cowards  before  that  marred  and  moody  face. 
Be  as  brisk  as  they  would,  they  were  too  slow  for  Gorlois's 
temper,  a  temper  vicious  as  a  wounded  bear's. 

"  God  and  the  Saints  —  was  ever  man  served  by  such  a 
pack  of  stiff- fingered  fools  !  The  devil  take  your  fumbling. 
Go  and  gird  up  harlots,  or  hold  cooking-pots.  On  with 
that  helmet." 

A  fellow,  very  white  about  the  mouth,  clapped  the 
casque  on,  and  drew  a  quick  breath  when  the  angry  eyes 
withered  him  no  longer.  Armlets,  breastplates,  greaves, 
cuishes,  all  were  on.  Gorlois  seemed  to  emit  fire  like  metal 
at  white  heat.  He  went  clanging  down  stairway  and 
through  atrium  to  the  courtyard,  where  a  horseboy  held  a 
white  charger.  Gorlois  cuffed  the  lad  aside,  mounted  with 
a  spring,  took  his  spear  from  an  esquire,  and  rode  straight 
for  the  gate,  his  horse's  hoofs  sparking  fire  from  the  court- 
yard stones.  Half  an  hour  or  more  had  gone  since  Pelleas 
had  passed  by  on  his  black  horse,  and  Gorlois  spurred  at  a 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  275 

gallop  through  Caeileon,  bent  on  catching  sight  of  the  red 
knight  before  he  should  have  ridden  into  the  covering 
masses  of  the  woods. 

Pelleas  meanwhile  rode  on  like  a  lad  whose  first  quest 
led  him  into  the  infinite  romance  of  the  unknown.  Woods 
and  waters  called ;  bare  night  and  the  blink  of  the  stars 
summoned  up  that  strangeness  in  life  that  is  like  wine  to 
the  heart  of  the  strong  and  the  brave.  He  was  young  again 
—  young  in  the  first  glory  of  arms ;  the  world  shone 
glamoured  as  of  old  as  he  turned  from  the  high-road  to 
a  bridle-track  that  led  up  through  woods  towards  the 
north. 

Holding  on  at  a  level  pace  he  passed  the  woods  and  saw 
them  rolling  back  like  a  green  cataract  towards  the  sea. 
Bare  hills  saluted  him ;  the  beacon  height  with  its  great 
wooden  cross  stood  out  against  the  sky  ;  mile  on  mile  of 
wooded  land  billowed  out  before  him,  clouded  with  a  blue 
haze  where  the  domes  of  the  trees  rose  innumerably  rank 
on  rank.  The  Abbey  of  the  Holy  Mary  lay  low  in  meadows 
on  his  left,  its  fish  pools  shimmering  in  the  sun,  its  orchards 
densely  green  about  its  walls.  Two  leagues  or  more  of 
wood  and  wild,  a  climb  over  hills,  a  long  descent,  and  Usk 
again  shone  out  trailing  distant  in  the  hollows.  A  crumbling 
tower  stood  up  above  the  trees.  Pelleas  passed  close  to  it, 
giving  antiquity  due  reverence  as  was  his  custom,  looking 
up  at  its  ivied  walls,  its  crown  of  gillyflowers,  its  windows 
wistful  as  a  blind  man's  eyes.  Another  mile  and  Usk  ran 
at  his  feet.  A  hermitage  stood  by  the  ford.  Pelleas  gave 
the  good  man  a  piece  of  silver  and  besought  his  prayers 
before  he  rode  down  and  splashed  through  the  river  to  the 
further  bank.  Heathland  and  scrub  rolled  to  the  east, 
merging  into  the  blue  swell  of  a  low  line  of  hills.  It  was 
wild  country  enough,  haunted  by  snipe  and  crested  plover, 
an  open  solitude  that  swept  into  a  purple  streak  against  the 
northern  sky. 

It  was  noon  before  Pelleas  had  made  an  end  of  its 
shadeless  glare  and  taken  to  the  hills  that  rose  gently  towards 


276  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

the  east.  His  red  harness  moving  over  the  green  was  lost 
to  Gorlois,  who  had  missed  the  trail  long  ago  in  the  woods 
beyond  St.  Mary's.  It  was  dusk  when  the  Cornishman 
came  guided  to  the  ford,  and  learnt  from  the  hermit  there 
that  the  chase  lay  across  Usk  and  eastward  over  the  heath. 
Gorlois  gave  the  man  no  piece  of  silver,  only  a  savage  curse 
to  gag  his  alms-seeking.  Night  came  and  caught  him  in 
the  open,  and  rather  than  wander  astray  in  the  dark  he 
spent  the  night  under  a  whin  bush,  calming  his  incontinent 
temper  as  best  he  might. 

An  hour  past  noon  Pelleas  stood  on  the  last  hill  slope 
and  looked  down  upon  the  massed  woodland  at  his  feet. 
Here  at  last  was  Merlin's  valley  choked  up  with  trees  —  a 
green  lake  of  foliage  that  rippled  from  ridge  to  ridge. 
Pelleas,  with  the  sun  at  his  back,  stood  and  looked  down  on 
it  with  a  kind  of  quiet  awe.  So  Godfrey  and  his  knights 
looked  down  upon  the  holy  city,  so  Dante  saw  Beatrice  in 
his  vision,  and  Cortez  gazed  at  the  Pacific  in  the  west. 
Pelleas  had  taken  his  helmet  from  his  head  and  hung  it  at 
his  saddle-bow ;  there  was  a  grand  hunger  on  his  face,  a 
passionate  calm,  as  he  abode  on  the  hill  top  with  his  tall 
spear  a  black  streak  against  the  sun. 

Mystery  waved  him  on  to  the  great  oaks  whose  tops  rose 
like  green  flames  to  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Could  Igraine  be 
in  this  valley  ?  Would  he  set  eyes  on  her  that  day,  and  see 
the  bronze  gloss  of  her  hair  go  shimmering  through  some 
woodland  gallery  ?  It  was  nigh  upon  a  year  since  he  had 
seen  her.  It  had  been  summer  then,  and  it  was  summer 
now ;  his  heart  was  singing  as  it  had  sung  on  that  mere 
island  when  Igraine  had  looked  into  his  eyes  under  the 
cedar  tree.  He  had  borne  much,  endured  much,  since  then  ; 
time  had  hallowed  memory  and  shed  a  crimson  lustre  over 
the  past.  Mahwise,  for  the  great  love  that  was  in  him,  he 
almost  feared  to  look  on  her  again  lest  she  should  have 
changed  in  face  or  in  heart.  Great  God,  what  a  thought 
was  that !  It  had  never  smitten  him  before.  Stiffened  by  his 
own  strong  constancy,  he  had  dowered  Igraine  with  equal 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  277 

loyalty  of  soul,  nor  had  considered  the  lapse  of  time  and  the 
crumbling  power  of  hours.  The  thought  brought  a  dew  of 
sweat  to  his  forehead  and  made  him  cold  even  in  the  sun. 
No,  honour  to  God,  the  girl  had  a  heart  to  be  trusted,  or 
he  had  never  loved  her  as  he  did  ! 

Shaking  the  bridle,  he  rode  down  into  the  murk  of  the 
trees.  He  had  to  slant  his  spear  and  to  bow  his  head  often 
as  the  great  boughs  swooped  to  the  ground.  The  dim 
glamour  of  the  place  had  a  sinister  effect  upon  his  mind  ;  it 
solemnised  him,  touched  the  spiritual  chords  of  his  heart, 
uncovered  the  somewhat  gloomy  groundwork  of  philosophy 
that  lay  deep  under  the  fabric  of  religious  habit.  Merlin 
had  told  a  tale  and  nothing  more.  God's  blessings  were 
not  man's  blessings,  God's  ways  not  man's  ways.  Pelleas 
had  learnt  to  look  for  what  he  might  have  called  the 
contradictions  of  divine  charity.  We  are  smitten  when  we 
pray  for  a  blessing,  chided  when  desirous  of  comfort.  Life 
would  seem  at  times  a  gigantic  tyranny  for  the  creation  of 
patience.  Pelleas  remembered  the  past,  and  kept  his  hopes 
and  desires  well  in  hand. 

Betimes  he  judged  himself  not  far  from  the  bottom  of 
the  valley,  for  through  gaps  in  the  foliage  overhead  he 
could  see  the  woods  on  the  further  slope  towering  up 
magnificently  to  touch  the  sky.  Still  further  the  long 
galleries  of  the  wood  arched  out  upon  grassland  gemmed 
with  summer  flowers.  Showers  of  sunlight  told  of  an  open 
sky.  He  was  soon  out  of  the  shadows  and  standing  under 
the  wooelshawe,  with  the  dale  Merlin  had  pictured  stretch- 
ing north  and  south  before  his  eyes. 

The  scene  smiled  up  at  him  from  its  bath  of  sunlight  — 
the  green  meadows  flecked  white,  blue,  and  gold,  the  diverse 
foliage  of  the  trees,  the  little  pool  smooth  as  crystal,  the 
solemn  barriers  of  the  surrounding  woods.  He  looked  first 
of  all  for  the  cottage  built  of  timber,  and  could  not  see  it 
for  its  overshadowing  trees.  None  the  less,  by  the  pool  a 
girl  in  a  blue  smock  stood  looking  up  towards  him,  her  face 
showing  oval  white  from  her  loosened  hair.  Pelleas  held  his 


278  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

breath  for  the  moment,  then  saw  well  enough  that  it  was  not 
Igraine.  Meanwhile  the  figure  in  blue  had  disappeared  as 
though  in  fear  of  him  ;  he  could  no  longer  see  the  girl  from 
where  he  watched  on  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

Riding  out,  he  sallied  down  through  the  long  grass  with 
its  haze  of  flowers,  his  eyes  turned  with  a  steadfast  eager- 
ness to  the  pool  in  the  meadows.  His  impatience  grew 
with  every  step,  but  he  was  outwardly  cool  as  any  veteran. 
First  the  brown  thatch  of  the  cottage  came  into  view,  then 
the  blue  smock  of  the  girl  who  stood  by  the  porch  and 
watched.  Last  of  all  Pelleas  saw  a  gleam  of  armour  through 
the  gloom  of  a  cedar  tree,  heard  the  neigh  of  a  horse,  the 
jar  of  a  swinging  shield.  The  sight  made  his  heart  beat 
more  briskly  than  ever  ghost  or  goblin  could  have  done. 
Pushing  through  the  trees  he  came  full  upon  a  knight 
mounted  on  a  grey  horse,  who  was  advancing  towards  him 
bearing  on  his  shield  the  cognisance  of  a  cloven  heart. 

The  knight  on  the  grey  horse  reined  in  and  abode  stone 
still  in  the  meadows,  the  sunlight  flashing  on  his  helmet 
and  such  points  of  his  harness  uncovered  by  his  surcoat. 
Pelleas  as  he  rode  down  took  stock  of  the  stranger  with  an 
eagerness  that  was  half  jealous  maugre  his  perspicuity  of 
soul.  What  had  this  splendid  gentleman  to  do  with 
Igraine  the  novice  ?  Truth  to  tell,  Pelleas  would  rather 
have  had  some  humbler  person  to  serve  as  guide  on  such  a 
quest. 

The  knight  on  the  grey  horse  never  budged  a  foot. 
Pelleas  saw  that  he  carried  no  spear  and  that  his  sword  was 
safe  in  his  scabbard.  This  looked  like  peace.  Drawing  up 
some  three  paces  away,  he  scanned  the  strange  knight  over 
from  head  to  foot,  voted  him  a  passable  man,  and  admired 
his  armour.  And  since  his  whole  soul  was  set  on  a  certain 
subject,  he  made  no  delay  over  courteous  generalities,  but 
came  at  once  to  the  point  at  issue. 

"Greeting,  sir;  I  have  ridden  from  Caerleon  to  speak 
with  you." 

The  knight   in  the  violet  surcoat  swayed  in  the  saddle 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES 

as  though  shaken  by  a  spear  thrust  on  his  painted  shield. 
Pelleas  noted  that  both  his  hands  were  tangled  up  in  the 
grey  horse's  mane,  though  nothing  could  be  seen  of  the 
face  behind  the  fixed  vizor  of  the  helmet.  A  voice,  husky, 
toneless,  feeble,  answered  him  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  What  would  you  with  me,  knight  of  the  red  shield  ?  " 

"  There  is-  a  lady  whose  name  is  Igraine  ;  I  seek  her.  I 
have  been  forewarned  that  a  knight  lodging  in  this  valley 
has  knowledge  of  her,  and  you,  messire,  seem  to  be  that 
knight." 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  quoth  the  cracked,  husky  voice 
from  the  helmet. 

Pelleas  considered  a  moment  and  held  his  peace.  There 
was  something  strange  about  this  knight,  something  tragical, 
something  that  touched  the  heart.  Pelleas's  instinct  for 
superb  miseries  took  hold  of  him  with  a  queer,  twisting 
grip  that  made  him  shudder.  His  dark  eyes  smouldered 
as  he  watched  the  strange  knight,  and  gave  voice  to  the 
grim  thought  that  lay  heavy  on  his  mind.  ^ 

"  The  lady  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  husky  voice  with  blunt  brevity. 

"  And  she  is  well  fortuned  ?  " 

"  Passably." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  Pelleas. 

There  was  a  dry  sob  in  the  brazen  helmet,  but  Pelleas 
never  heard  the  sound.  He  was  staring  into  the  woods 
with  large,  luminous  eyes,  and  a  half  smile  on  his  lips,  as 
though  his  thoughts  pleased  him. 

"  Is  the  Lady  Igraine  far  from  hence  ?  "  he  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"  If  you  will  follow  me,  my  lord,  I  can  bring  you  to  her 
in  less  than  an  hour." 

Pelleas  flushed  red  to  the  forehead,  his  dark  eyes  beamed. 
He  looked  a  god  of  a  man  as  he  sat  bareheaded  on  his 
black  horse,  his  face  aglow  like  the  face  of  a  martyr.  The 
Knight  of  the  Cloven  Heart  looked  at  him,  flapped  his 
bridle,  and  rode  on. 


280  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

Pelleas  said  never  a  word  as  they  passed  up  the  valley. 
There  were  deep  thoughts  in  his  heart,  yearnings,  and 
ecstasies  of  prayer  that  held  him  in  a  stupor  of  silence. 
His  was  a  grandeur  of  mind  that  grew  the  grander  for  the 
majesty  of  passion.  There  was  no  blurting  of  questions,  no 
gabbling  of  news,  no  chatter,  no  flurry.  Like  a"  mountain 
he  was  towering,  sable-browed,  impenetrable,  while  the 
thunder  of  suspense  lasted.  The  knight  on  the  grey  horse 
watched  him  narrowly  with  a  white  look  under  his  helmet 
that  was  infinitely  plaintive. 

At  the  northern  end  of  the  valley,  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  forest,  stood  a  thicket  of  gnarled  thorns  still 
smothered  with  the  snow  of  early  summer.  The  Knight  of 
the  Cloven  Heart  drew  rein  in  the  long  grass  and  pointed 
Pelleas  to  these  white  pavilions  under  the  near  umbrage  of 
the  oaks. 

u  Look  yonder,"  said  the  voice. 

Pelleas  answered  with  a  stare. 

"  Would  you  see  your  lady  ?  " 

"  Be  careful  how  you  jest,  my  friend." 

"  I  jest  not,  Uther  Pendragon.  Get  you  down  and  tether 
your  horse ;  go  in  amid  yon  trees  and  look  into  the  forest. 
I  swear  on  the  cross  you  shall  see  what  you  desire." 

Pelleas  gave  the  knight  a  long  look,  said  nothing,  dis- 
mounted, threw  the  bridle  over  a  bough.  Then  he  thrust 
hjs  spear  into  the  ground  and  went  bareheaded  in  among 
the  trees.  Standing  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  oak,  he 
peered  long  into  the  glooms,  saw  nothing  living  but  a 
rabbit  feeding  in  the  grass. 

Suddenly  a  voice  called  to  him. 

"  Pelleas,  Pelleas." 

It  was  a  wondrous  cry,  clear  and  plaintive,  yet  tremulous 
with  feeling.  It  rang  through  the  woods  like  silver,  bring- 
ing back  the  picture  of  a  solemn  beech  wood  under  moon- 
light, and  a  girl  tied  naked  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  A  great 
lustre  of  awe  swept  over  Pelleas's  face  ;  his  eyes  were  big  and 
luminous  as  the  eyes  of  a  blind  man  ;  he  groped  with  his 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  28 1 

hands  as  he  passed  back  under  the  May  trees  to  the 
valley. 

In  the  long  grass  stood  a  woman  in  armour,  her  helmet 
thrown  aside,  and  her  red  gold  hair  pouring  marvellous  in 
the  sunlight  over  her  violet  surcoat.  Her  head  was  thrown 
back  so  as  to  show  the  full  sweep  of  her  shapely  throat ;  her 
face  was  very  pale  under  her  parted  hair,  while  her  lids 
drooped  over  eyes  that  seemed  to  swim  with  unshed  tears. 
Her  hands,  slightly  outstretched,  quivered  as  with  a  shudder- 
ing impulse  from  her  heart,  and  her  half-parted  lips  looked 
as  though  they  were  moulded  to  breathe  forth  a  moan. 

Pelleas  stood  and  stared  at  her  as  a  dead  man  might  look 
at  God.  He  drew  near  step  by  step,  his  face  white  as 
Igraine's,  his  eyes  as  deep  with  desire  as  hers.  Neither  of 
them  said  a  word,  but  stood  and  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  as  into  heaven  —  awed,  solemnised,  silenced.  Above 
them  towered  the  green  woods ;  the  meadows  rippled  from 
them  with  their  broidery  of  flowers ;  the  scent  of  the  white 
May  swept  fragrant  on  the  air.  Solitude  was  with  them, 
and  the  mild  smile  of  Nature  glimmered  with  the  sunlight 
over  the  trees. 

Igraine  spoke  first. 

"  Pelleas,"  was  all  she  said. 

The  man  gave  a  great  sob,  fell  on  his  knees,  and  would 
have  kissed  her  surcoat.  Igraine  bent  down  to  him  with 
eyes  that  shone  like  two  deep  wells  of  love.  Both  her 
hands  were  upon  Pelleas's  shoulders,  his  face  was  turned 
to  hers. 

"  Kneel  not  to  me." 

"  Igraine." 

"  Pelleas." 

"  Let  me  touch  you." 

"  There,  there,  you  have  my  hand." 

"  My  God,  my  God  !  " 

Igraine  gave  a  low  cry,  half  knelt,  half  fell  before  him. 
Pelleas's  arms  caught  her,  his  face  hung  over  hers,  her  hair 
fell  down  and  trailed  a  golden  pool  upon  the  grass.  She 


282  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

put  her  hands  up  and  touched  his  hair,  smiled  wonderfully, 
and  looked  at  him  as  though  she  were  dying. 

"  Kiss  me,  Pelleas." 

Pelleas  drew  a  deep  breath ;  his  body  seemed  to  quake ; 
his  whole  soul  was  sucked  up  by  the  girl's  lips. 

"  Igraine,"  was  all  he  said. 

Her  face  blazed,  her  hands  clung  about  his  neck. 

"  Again,  again." 

"  My  God,  have  I  not  prayed  for  this  !  " 

His  eyes  were  large  and  wonderful  to  look  upon.  There 
was  such  awe  and  love  in  them  that  an  angel  might  have 
looked  thus  upon  the  Christ  and  have  earned  no  reproach. 
Igraine  kissed  his  lips,  crept  close  into  his  bosom,  hid  her 
face,  and  wept. 


WHEN  Igraine  had  ended  her  tears,  and  grown  calm  and  quiet, 
Pelleas  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  a  grass  bank  painted 
thick  with  flowers  that  sloped  to  the  white  boughs  of  a 
great  May  tree.  He  was  radiant  in  his  manhood,  and  his  eyes 
burnt  for  her  with  such  a  splendour  of  pride  and  tenderness 
that  she  trembled  in  thought  for  the  secret  she  had  kept 
from  him  in  her  heart.  He  could  know  nothing  of  Gorlois, 
or  he  would  not  have  come  thus  to  her.  The  mocking 
face  of  fate  leered  at  her  like  a  satyr  out  of  the  shadows, 
yet  with  the  joy  of  the  moment  she  put  the  thoughts  aside 
and  lived  on  the  man's  lips  and  the  great  love  that  brimmed 
for  her  in  his  eyes. 

Pelleas  sat  in  the  long  grass  at  her  feet  and  looked  up  at 
her  as  at  a  saint.  Never  had  she  seen  such  glory  of  hap- 
piness on  human  face,  never  such  manhood  deified  by  the 
holier  instincts  of  the  heart.  The  sheer  strength  of  his 
devotion  carried  her  above  her  cares  and  made  her  content 
to  live  for  the  present,  and  to  gird  time  with  the  girdle  of 
an  hour. 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  283 

"  You  are  no  nun,  Igraine  ?  " 

She  smiled  at  him  and  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no,  Pelleas." 

"  Would  to  God  you  had  told  me  that  a  year  ago." 

«  Would  to  God  I  had." 

"  It  would  have  saved  much  woe." 

Igraine  hung  her  head.  The  man's  words  were  prophetic 
in  their  honest  ignorance,  and  the  whole  tale  had  almost 
rushed  from  her  that  moment  but  for  a  certain  selfishness 
that  held  her  mute,  a  fear  that  overpowered  her.  She 
knew  the  fibre  of  Pelleas's  soul.  To  tell  him  the  truth 
would  mean  to  call  his  honour  to  arms  against  his  love,  and 
she  dreaded  that  thought  as  she  dread?d  death. 

"  I  was  a  fool,  Pelleas,"  she  said,  with  a  queer  intensity 
of  tone  that  made  the  man  look  quickly  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  did  not  know." 

"  Pardon,  Pelleas,  I  knew  your  soul,  how  true  and  strong 
it  was.  God  knows  I  tried  you  to  the  end,  and  bitter  truth 
it  proved  to  me.  If  you  had  only  waited." 

"  Ah,  Igraine." 

"  Only  a  night ;  you  would  have  had  the  truth  at  dawn." 

"  I  struggled  for  your  soul  and  for  mine,  as  I  thought." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  chose  the  nobler  part,  thinking  me  a  mere 
woman,  a  frail  thing  blown  about  by  my  own  passion.  I 
loved  you,  Pelleas,  for  the  deed,  though  it  nigh  brought  me 
to  my  death." 

"  God  knows  I  honoured  you,  Igraine." 

"  Too  well ;  it  had  been  better  for  us  both  if  you  had 
been  more  human." 

There  was  an  anguish  of  regret  in  her  voice,  a  plaintive 
accusation  that  made  Pelleas  wince  to  the  core.  He  bent 
down  and  kissed  her  hand  as  it  lay  in  her  lap,  then  looked 
into  her  face  with  a  mute  appeal  that  brought  her  to  the 
verge  of  tears. 

"  Courage,  courage,  dear  heart." 

"  God  bless  you,  Igraine." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  your  love." 


284  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Come  now,  tell  me  how  the  year  has  passed." 

Igraine  held  his  hand  in  hers  and  began  to  twist  her  hair 
about  his  wrist  into  a  bracelet  of  gold.  Her  eyes  faltered 
from  his,  and  were  hot  and  heavy  with  an  inward  misery  of 
thought.  The  man's  words  wounded  her  at  every  turn, 
and  in  his  innocence  he  shook  her  happiness  as  a  wind 
shakes  a  tree. 

"  There  is  little  I  can  tell  you,"  she  said. 

"  Every  hour  is  as  gold  to  me." 

"  Would  I  had  them  lying  in  my  lap." 

"  We  are  young  yet,  Igraine." 

There  was  a  joyousness  in  his  voice  that  sounded  to  the 
girl  like  a  blow  struck  upon  empty  brass,  or  like  the  laugh 
of  a  child  through  a  ruined  house.  His  rich  optimism 
mocked  her  to  the  echo. 

u  I  took  refuge  in  Winchester,"  she  began,  "  with  Rada- 
manth  my  uncle,  and  lodged  there  many  months.  I  watched 
for  you  and  waited,  but  got  no  news  of  a  knight  named 
Pelleas.  Week  by  week  as  my  knowledge  grew  I  began 
to  think  and  think,  to  piece  fragments  together,  to  dream 
in  my  heart.  I  longed  to  see  this  Uther  of  whom  all 
Britain  talked.  Ah,  you  remember  the  cross,  Pelleas, 
which  you  left  at  my  feet  ? " 

Pelleas  smiled.  She  put  her  hand  into  her  bosom  with  a 
little  blush  of  pride  and  looked  into  the  man's  eyes. 

"  I  have  it  here  still,"  she  said,  "where  it  has  hung  these 
many  months.  This  scrap  of  gold  first  taught  me  to  look 
for  Uther." 

"  Ah,  Igraine,  am  I  a  king  !  " 

"  My  king,  sire.  And  oh  !  how  long  it  was  before  I 
could  get  news  of  you  ;  yet  in  time  tidings  came.  Then  it 
was  that  I  left  Winchester,  went  on  foot  through  the  land, 
and  hearing  again  of  you  I  set  out  for  Wales  and  Caerleon 
with  rumours  of  war  in  my  ears.  Even  from  Caerleon  I 
followed  you,  even  to  the  western  sea,  where  I  saw  the 
great  battle  with  Gilomannius,  and  the  noble  deeds  you  did 
there  for  Britain." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  285 

Pelleas's  dark  eyes  flashed  up  to  hers.  A  man  loves  to 
be  noble  in  deed  before  the  face  of  the  woman  he  serves,  a 
species  of  divine  vanity  that  begets  heroes.  The  girl's 
staunch  faith  was  a  thing  that  proffered  the  superbest 
flattery. 

"  You  are  very  wonderful,  Igraine." 

"  It  was  all  for  my  own  heart ;  and  what  greater  joy 
could  I  have  than  to  see  you  a  king  before  the  thundering 
swords  of  your  knights." 

"  You  saw  that,  Igraine  ? " 

"  Do  you  remember  a  hillock  by  the  pine  forest  on  the 
ridge,  where  you  reined  in  after  the  charge  and  uncovered 
your  head  to  the  sun  ?  " 

"As  it  were  yesterday." 

"  I  stood  on  that  hillock,  Pelleas,  and  saw  your  face  after 
many  months." 

"  Ah,  Igraine,  said  I  not  you  were  very  wonderful  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  I  am  only  a  woman,  only  a  woman." 

"  God  give  me  such  a  wife." 

The  word  was  keen  as  the  barb  of  a  lance.  Pelleas's  head 
was  bowed  over  the  girl's  hand  as  he  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
gold  circlet  of  hair,  and  he  did  not  see  the  frown  of  pain  upon 
her  face.  Wife  !  What  a  mockery,  what  bitterness  !  The 
sky  seemed  black  for  a  moment,  the  valley  bare  wifh  the 
blasts  of  winter  and  the  moan  of  tortured  trees.  She  half 
choked  in  her  throat,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  fail  within 
her  like  a  bowl  that  is  broken.  Yet  there  was  a  smile  on 
her  face  when  Pelleas  looked  up  from  the  circlet  of  her  hair 
with  the  pride  of  love  in  his  large  eyes. 

"  What  ails  you,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  A  mere  thought  of  the  past." 

"  Tell  it  me." 

"No,  no,  it  is  a  nothing,  a  mere  vapour,  and  it  has 
passed.  How  warm  your  lips  are  to  my  fingers.  Tell  me 
of  yourself,  Pelleas." 

"  But  this  armour,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  1  took  it  from  a  dead  knight,  God  rest  his  soul.     I  have 


286  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

wandered  long  in  Wales,  yet  ever  drew  to  Caerleon  where 
folk  spoke  your  name,  yet  never  might  I  come  near  you, 
lest  —  lest  you  were  too  great  for  me." 

"  Child,  child  !  " 

"  Uther  Pendragon,  King  of  Britain  !  " 

"  Let  the  world  die." 

"  And  let  us  live  ;   Pelleas,  tell  me  of  yourself." 

The  man  looked  long  over  the  valley  in  silence.  His 
face  was  very  grave,  and  his  eyes  were  deep  with  thought 
as  though  the  past  awed  him  with  the  recollection  of  its 
bitterness. 

"  May  I  never  pass  such  another  night,"  he  said. 

The  words  were  curt  and  calm  enough  as  though  leaving 
infinite  things  unsaid.  Igraine  sat  silent  by  him  and  still 
plaited  her  hair  about  his  wrist. 

"  I  went  away  in  the  dark,  for  I  thought  you  were  a  nun, 
Igraine,  and  I  would  not  break  your  vows.  I  was  nearly 
blind  for  an  hour.  Twice  my  horse  stumbled  and  fell 
with  me  in  the  woods,  and  once  I  was  smitten  out  of  the 
saddle  by  a  tree.  Dawn  came,  and  how  I  cursed  the  sun. 
I  seemed  to  see  your  face  everywhere,  and  to  hear  your 
voice  in  every  sound.  Days  came  and  went,  and  I  hated 
the  sight  of  man  ;  as  for  my  prayers,  I  could  not  say  them, 
and  I  was  dumb  in  my  heart  towards  God.  I  rode  north 
into  the  wilds,  and  into  the  fenlands  of  the  east.  Strange 
things  befell  me  in  many  places.  I  fought  often,  beast  and 
wild  men  and  robber  ruffians  out  of  the  woods.  Fighting 
pleased  me ;  it  eased  the  wrath  in  my  heart  that  seemed  to 
rage  up  against  the  world,  and  against  all  things  that  drew 
breath.  I  wandered  in  the  night  of  the  forests,  waded 
through  swamps,  took  my  food  by  the  sword,  and  never 
blessed  man  or  woman.  I  felt  bitter  and  evil  to  the  core." 

Igraine  bent  down  and  touched  his  forehead  with  her  lips. 

"  Brave  heart,"  she  said. 

"  You  shall  hear  how  I  came  by  my  own  soul  again." 

"  Ah,  tell  me  that." 

"  It  was  as  though  a  still  voice  came  to  me  out  of  heaven. 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  287 

I  was  riding  in  the  northern  wilds  not  far  from  rough  coast- 
land  and  the  sea,  and  riding,  came  upon  a  little  house  of 
timber  all  bowered  round  with  trees.  It  was  a  peaceful 
spot,  flowers  grew  around,  and  the  sun  was  shining,  and  I 
drew  near,  moved  in  my  heart  to  beg  food  and  rest,  for  I 
was  half  starved  and  gaunt  as  a  monk  from  an  African 
desert.  What  did  I  see  there  ?  A  dead  man  tied  to  a  tree 
and  gored  with  many  wounds ;  a  woman  kneeling  dead 
before  his  feet,  thrust  through  with  a  sword ;  a  little  child 
lying  near  with  its  head  crushed  by  a  stone  or  a  club.  The 
sword  was  a  Saxon  sword,  and  I  knew  who  had  done  the 
deed ;  but  sight  of  the  dead  folk  by  their  empty  home 
seemed  to  smite  my  pity  like  the  thought  of  the  dead 
Christ.  I  had  pitied  but  myself  and  you,  Igraine,  and 
had  wandered  through  the  land  like  a  brute  beast  mad  with 
the  smart  of  my  own  wound.  Here  was  woe  enough, 
agony  enough,  to  shame  my  heart.  Straightway  I  went 
down  on  my  knees  and  prayed,  and  came  through  penitence 
and  fire  to  a  knowledge  of  myself.  c  Rise  up,'  said  the 
voice  in  me,  l  rise  up  and  play  the  man.  There  is  much 
sorrow  in  Britain,  much  shedding  of  innocent  blood,  much 
violence,  and  much  brute  wrath.  Rise  up  and  strike  for 
woman  and  for  babe,  let  your  sword  shine  against  the 
wolves  from  over  the  sea,  let  your  shield  hurl  them  from 
the  ruined  hearths  of  Britain,  the  smoking  churches,  and  the 
children  of  the  cross.'  So  I  rose  up  strong  again  and 
comforted,  and  rode  back  into  the  world  to  do  my  duty." 

When  Pelleas  had  made  an  end  of  speaking,  Igraine's 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  The  simplicity  of  the  man's  words 
had  awakened  to  the  full  all  the  pathos  of  the  past  in  her, 
and  she  was  as  proud  of  him  as  when  she  saw  him  hurl 
Gilomannius  and  his  host  down  the  green  slopes  towards 
the  sea.  Her  lips  quivered  as  she  spoke  to  him  —  looking 
into  his  face  with  her  eyes  dim  and  shadowy  with  tears. 

"  Forgive  me  all  this." 

"  It  has  been  good  for  me,  Igraine,  nor  would  I  alter  the 
days  that  are  gone." 


288  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  No,  no." 

"  We  have  found  love  again." 

«  Ah,  Pelleas  !  " 

"  What  more  need  we  ask  ?  " 

"  What  more  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  half  a  wail.  Again  it  was  winter,  and  the 
wind  blew  as  though  at  midnight ;  the  flowers  and  the 
green  woods  were  blurred  before  the  girl's  eyes.  Gorlois's 
hard  face  and  the  grey  walls  of  Tintagel  came  betwixt  her 
and  the  summer.  And,  though  the  mood  lasted  but  for  a 
moment,  it  seemed  like  the  long  agony  of  days  crushed  into 
the  compass  of  a  minute. 

Evening  stood  calm-eyed  in  the  east.  A  tranquil  heat 
hung  over  wood  and  valley,  a  warm  silence  that  seemed  to 
bind  the  world  into  a  golden  swoon.  Not  a  ripple  stirred 
in  the  grass  with  its  tapestries  of  flowers ;  every  leaf  was 
hushed  upon  the  bough ;  nothing  moved  save  the  droning 
bee  and  the  wings  of  the  butterflies  hovering  colour-bright 
over  the  meadows.  The  sky  was  a  mighty  sapphire,  the 
woods  carved  emeralds  piled  giantwise  to  the  sun.  There 
was  no  discord  and  no  sound  of  man,  as  though  the  curse  of 
Adam  was  not  yet. 

Igraine  had  drawn  Pelleas's  great  sword  from  its  sheath. 
She  held  it  slantwise  before  her,  and  pressed  her  lips  to 
the  cold  steel. 

"  Old  friend,"  she  said,  "  be  ever  true  to  me." 

Pelleas  laughed  and  touched  her  hair  with  his  hand.  A 
kind  of  exaltation  came  upon  them,  and  the  zest  of  life 
crept  through  the  bodies  like  green  sap  in  spring.  Igraine 
had  filled  her  brazen  helmet  to  the  brim  with  flowers,  and 
she  scattered  them  and  sang  as  they  roamed  into  the  hoar 
shadows  of  the  woods  :  — 

"  Dear  love  of  mine, 
Where  art  thou  roaming  ? 
The  west  is  red, 
My  heart  is  calling." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  289 

Never  had  the  vaults  seemed  greener,  the  half  light  more 
mysterious  under  the  massive  trees.  The  far  world  was  out 
of  ken ;  they  alone  lived  and  had  their  being ;  the  toil  of 
man  was  not  even  like  the  long  sob  of  a  moonlit  sea,  or  the 
sound  of  rivers  running  in  the  night. 

The  infinite  strangeness  of  beauty  shone  over  them  like 
a  wizard  light  out  of  the  west.  Igraine's  lips  were  very  red, 
her  face  white  in  the  shadows,  her  eyes  deep  with  mute 
desire.  Hand  held  hand,  body  touched  body.  Often  she 
would  lie  out  upon  Pelleas's  arm,  her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
her  hair  clouding  over  his  red  harness.  They  were  content 
to  be  together,  to  forget  the  world  save  so  much  of  it  as 
came  within  the  ken  of  their  eyes,  and  the  close  grip  of  their 
twined  fingers.  They  said  little  as  they  swayed  together 
under  the  trees.  Soul  ebbed  into  soul  upon  their  lips,  and 
a  deep  ecstasy  possessed  them  like  the  throbbing  pathos  of 
some  song. 

As  the  day  deepened  Pelleas  and  Igraine  turned  back 
into  the  valley,  hand  in  hand.  The  west  burnt  gold  above 
the  tree  tops,  the  gnarled  trunks  were  pillars  of  agate  bearing 
Byzant  domes  of  breathless  leaves.  By  the  white  May  trees 
the  two  horses  stood  tethered,  black  and  grey  against  the 
grass.  Loosing  them,  and  taking  each  a  bridle,  they  passed 
down  through  flowers  to  the  cottage  and  the  pool. 

Garlotte  met  them  there  with  her  brown  hair  pouring 
over  her  shoulders,  and  a  clean  white  kerchief  over  her 
throat  and  bosom.  She  came  to  them  through  a  little 
thicket  of  fox-gloves  that  were  budding  early,  white  and 
purple.  Her  blue  eyes  quivered  for  a  moment  over  Pelleas's 
face  as  she  made  him  a  deep  curtsey,  and  bent  to  kiss 
Igraine's  hand.  There  was  a  vast  measure  of  sympathy  in 
Garlotte's  heart,  and  yet  for  all  her  well-wishing  she  was 
troubled  for  the  two,  fearing  for  them  instinctively  with 
e.ven  her  small  knowledge  of  the  world.  She  had  learnt 
enough  from  Igraine  to  comprehend  in  measure  that 
element  of  tragedy  that  had  entered  with  Gorlois  into  her 
life.  Her  interest  in  the  man  Pelleas  was  no  mere  vulgar 


290  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

curiosity,  rather  an  intense  pity  that  permeated  her  warm 
innocence  of  spirit  to  the  core. 

She  had  spread  supper  on  the  table,  a  much  meditated 
feast  that  had  kept  her  eagerly  busy  since  she  had  guessed 
the  name  of  the  strange  knight  who  had  ridden  down  out 
of  the  woods.  She  had  the  pride  of  a  young  housewife  in 
her  creamy  milk,  her  bread.  She  had  made  a  tansy  cake, 
and  there  was  a  rich  cream  cheese  ready  in  the  cupboard, 
and  a  fat  rabbit  stewing  by  the  fire.  Yet  for  all  her  ingenu- 
ous pride  she  felt  much  troubled  when  it  came  to  the  test 
lest  her  fare  should  seem  rude  and  meagre  to  the  great 
knight  in  the  red  harness.  Certainly  he  had  a  kind  face 
and  splendid  eyes,  but  would  he  not  smile  at  her  humble 
supper,  her  horn  cups,  and  her  plates  of  hollywood  ?  Her 
cares  were  empty  enough,  but  they  were  very  real  to  the 
sensitive  child  who  feared  to  seem  shamed  before  Igraine. 

Half  the  happiness  of  life  lies  in  the  kindly  sensibility  of 
others  to  our  desire  for  sympathy.  A  surly  word,  a  trivial 
ungraciousness,  a  small  deed  passed  over  in  thankless  silence, 
how  much  these  things  mean  to  a  sensitive  heart !  Garlotte,- 
standing  in  her  cottage  door,  half  shy  and  timid,  found  her 
small  fears  mere  little  goblins  of  her  own  invention. 
Igraine,  radiant  as  the  evening,  came  and  kissed  her  on  the 
lips. 

"Little  sister,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me." 

The  great  knight  too  was  smiling  at  her  in  quite  a  fa- 
therly fashion.  What  a  strong  face  he  had,  and  what  a  noble 
look;  she  felt  sure  that  he  was  a  good  man,  and  her  heart 
went  out  to  him  like  an  opening  flower.  When  he  took 
her  hand,  and  a  lock  of  her  hair  and  kissed  it,  she  went  red 
as  one  of  her  own  roses,  and  was  dumb  with  an  impulsive 
gladness. 

"  Little  sister,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me." 

"  Good,  my  lord,  to  you  !  " 

"  Child,  Igraine  can  tell  you  how." 

"  But  the  Lady  Igraine,  she  saved  my  life  !  " 

"  Ah,  I  had  not  heard  that.     Tell  me." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  291 

Garlotte  found  her  ease  in  a  moment.  The  whole  tale 
came  bubbling  up  like  water  out  of  a  spring.  Pelleas's 
strong  face  beamed ;  he  touched  Igraine's  hair  with  his 
fingers  and  looked  into  her  eyes  as  only  a  man  in  love  can 
look.  Garlotte  saw  that  she  was  giving  pleasure,  and  felt 
a  glow  from  head  to  heart.  Surely  this  great,  grave-faced 
knight  was  a  noble  soul ;  how  gentle  he  was,  and  how  he 
looked  into  Igraine's  eyes  and  bent  over  her  like  a  tall  elm 
over  a  slim  cypress  tree.  She  caught  the  happiness  of  the 
two,  and  from  that  moment  her  heart  was  singing  and  she 
had  no  more  fear  for  herself  and  her  poor  cottage.  Even 
the  horn  cups  took  a  golden  dignity,  and  her  tansy  cake 
and  her  cream  seemed  fit  for  a  prince. 

The  three  were  soon  at  supper  together  round  the 
wooden  table,  with  honeysuckle  and  roses  climbing  close 
above  their  heads.  Garlotte  would  have  stood  and  waited 
on  Pelleas  and  Igraine,  but  they  would  have  none  of  it ;  so 
she  was  set  smiling  at  the  head  of  her  little  table,  and  con- 
strained to  play  the  lady  under  her  own  roof.  It  was  a  dull 
meal  so  far  as  mere  words  were  concerned.  Pelleas's  eyes 
were  on  Igraine  in  the  twilight,  and  he  had  no  hunger  save 
hunger  of  heart ;  yet  that  the  supper  was  a  success  there  was 
no  doubt  whatever.  Garlotte  watched  them  both  with  a 
quiet  delight ;  young  as  she  was  she  was  wise  in  the  simple 
love  of  love,  and  so  she  mothered  the  pair  to  her  heart's 
content  in  her  own  imagination.  If  only  Renan  had  been 
there  to  help  her  serve,  and  touch  her  hand  under  the  table, 
what  a  perfect  guest-hour  it  would  have  been. 

When  the  meal  was  over  she  jumped  up  with  a  shy 
smile,  took  a  rush  basket  from  the  wall,  and  went  out  into 
the  garden.  Igraine  called  her  back. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  child  ?  " 

"  Up  the  valley  to  the  dead  oak  tree  where  herbs  grow. 
I  must  make  a  stew  to-morrow." 

"  It  will  soon  be  dark." 

Garlotte  swung  her  basket  and  laughed  from  her  cloud 
of  hair. 


292  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  You  gathered  herbs  on  Sunday,  Igraine." 

"  You  squirrel !  " 

u  Renan  was  here ;  you  came  home  after  dusk ;  good- 
by,  good-by." 

They  heard  her  go  singing  through  the  garden,  a  soft 
chant  a' amour  that  would  have  gone  wondrously  to  flute 
and  cithern.  It  died  away  slowly  amid  the  trees  like  an 
elfs  song  coming  from  woodlands  in  the  moonlight.  Pel- 
leas  drew  a  deep  breath  and  listened  in  the  shadow  of  the 
room  with  his  hands  clasped  before  him  on  the  table.  He 
looked  as  though  he  were  praying.  Igraine's  eyes  were 
glooms  of  violet  mystery  as  she  watched  him,  her  hands 
folded  over  a  breast  that  rose  and  fell  as  with  the  restless 
motion  of  a  troubled  sea.  She  called  the  man  softly  by 
name ;  her  body  bent  to  him  like  a  bow,  her  hair  bathed 
his  face  with  dim  ripples  of  gold  as  mouth  touched  mouth. 

They  went  out  into  the  garden  together  and  stood  under 
the  cedar  tree. 

"  Pelleas,  my  love,  my  own." 

"  Heart  of  mine." 

"  You  will  never  leave  me  ?  " 

"  How  should  the  sea  put  the  earth  from  his  bosom,  or 
the  moon  pass  from  the  arms  of  the  night  ?  " 

"  I  am  faint,  Pelleas  ;  hold  me  in  your  arms." 

"  They  are  strong,  Igraine." 

"  There,  let  me  rest  so,  for  ever.  Look,  the  stars  are 
coming  out,  and  there  is  the  moon  flooding  silver  over  the 
trees.  My  lips  burn,  and  I  am  faint." 

"  Courage,  courage,  dear  heart." 

"  How  close  you  hold  me !     I  could  die  so." 

"  What  is  death  to  us,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  Or  life  ?  " 

"  God  in  heaven,  and  heaven  on  earth." 

u  Your  words  hurt  me." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  293 


XI 

How  the  birds  sang  that  evening  as  a  saffron  afterglow 
fainted  over  the  forest  spires,  and  when  all  was  still  with 
the  hush  of  night  how  the  cry  of  a  nightingale  thrilled  from 
a  tree  near  the  cottage  ! 

The  glamour  of  the  day  had  passed,  and  now  what 
mockery  and  bitterness  came  with  the  cold,  calculating 
face  of  the  moon.  Igraine  tossed  and  turned  in  her  bed 
like  one  taken  with  a  fever;  her  brain  seemed  afire,  her 
hair  like  so  much  flame  about  her  forehead.  As  she  lay 
staring  with  wide,  wakeful  eyes,  the  birds'  song  mocked  her 
to  the  echo,  the  scent  of  honeysuckle  and  rose  floated 
in  like  a  sad  savour  of  death,  and  the  moonlight  seemed 
to  watch  her  without  a  quaver  of  pity.  Her  heart  panted  in 
the  darkness ;  she  was  torn  by  the  thousand  torments  of  a 
troubled  conscience,  wounded  to  tears,  yet  her  eyes  were 
dry  and  waterless  as  a  desert.  Gorlois's  face  seemed  to 
glare  down  at  her  out  of  the  idle  gloom,  and  she  could  have 
cried  out  with  the  fear  that  lay  like  an  icy  hand  over  her 
bosom. 

Pelleas  slept  under  the  cedar  tree,  wrapped  in  an  old 
cloak,  relic  of  Garlotte's  father.  How  Igraine's  heart 
wailed  for  the  man,  how  she  longed  for  the  touch  of  his 
hand  !  God  of  heaven,  she  could  not  let  him  go  again,  and 
starve  her  soul  with  the  old  cursed  life.  His  lips  had 
touched  hers,  his  arms  had  held  her  close,  she  had  felt  the 
warmth  of  his  body  and  the  beating  of  his  heart.  Was  all 
this  nothing  —  a  dream,  a  splendid  phantasm  to  be  rent 
away  like  a  crimson  cloud  ?  •  Was  she  to  be  Gorlois's  wife 
and  nothing  more,  a  bitter  flower  growing  under  a  gallows, 
sour  wine  frothing  in  a  gilded  cup  ? 

God  of  heaven,  no  !  What  had  the  world  done  for  her 
that  she  should  obey  its  edicts  and  suffer  for  its  tyrannies  ? 
Gorlois  had  cheated  her  of  her  liberty,  let  him  pay  the  price 
to  the  fates  j  what  honour,  indeed,  had  she  to  preserve  for 


294  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

him  ?  If  he  was  a  brute  piece  of  lust,  a  tyrant,  a  dema- 
gogue, so  much  the  better,  it  would  ease  her  conscience. 
She  owed  no  fealty,  no  marriage  vow,  to  Gorlois.  Her 
body  was  no  more  his  than  was  her  soul,  and  a  dozen 
priests  and  a  dozen  masses  might  as  well  marry  granite  to 
fire.  How  could  a  fool  in  a  cape  and  frock  by  gabbling  a 
service  bind  an  irresponsible  woman  to  a  man  she  hated  more 
than  the  foulest  mud  in  the  foulest  alley  ?  It  was  a  stupen- 
dous piece  of  nonsense,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  No  God 
calling  himself  a  just  God  could  hold  such  a  bargain 
holy. 

And  then  —  the  truth!  What  a  stumbling-block  truth 
was  on  occasions  !  She  knewPelleas's  intense  love  of  honour, 
the  fine  sensibility  of  his  conscience,  the  strong  thirst  for  the 
highest  good,  that  made  him  the  victim  of  an  ethical  tyranny. 
If  he  had  left  her  after  Andredswold  because  he  thought  her 
a  nun,  what  hope  now  had  she  of  holding  him  if  he  knew 
her  to  be  a  wife  ?  And  yet  for  all  her  love  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  keep  him  wholly  from  the  truth.  For  all 
her  passion  and  the  fire  in  her  rebellious  heart  she  was  not 
a  woman  who  could  fling  reason  to  the  winds,  and  stifle  up 
her  conscience  with  a  kiss.  Besides,  she  loved  Pelleas  to 
the  very  zenith  of  her  soul.  To  have  a  lie  understood  upon 
her  lips,  to  be  shamed  before  the  man's  eyes,  were  things 
that  scourged  her  in  fancy  even  more  than  the  thought 
of  losing  him.  She  trembled  when  she  thought  how  he 
might  look  at  her  in  later  days  if  a  passive  lie  were  proven 
against  her  with  open  shame. 

But  to  tell  him  of  Gorlois,  and  the  humiliation  of  that 
darkest  hour  of  her  life !  Could  such  a  man  as  Pelleas 
serve  her  longer  after  such  a  confession  ?  He  would  become 
a  king  again,  a  stranger,  a  man  set  in  high  places  far  beyond 
the  mere  yearning  of  a  woman's  white  face.  And  yet,  it 
was  possible  that  his  love  might  prove  stronger  than  his 
reason ;  it  was  possible  that  he  might  front  the  world  and 
frown  down  the  petty  judgments  of  men.  Glorious  and 
transcendant  sacrifice  !  She  could  face  calumny  beside  him 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  295 

as  a  rock  faces  the  froth  of  waves ;  she  could  look  Gorlois 
in  the  eyes,  and  know  neither  shame  nor  pity. 

Her  mood  that  night  was  like  the  passage  of  a  blown 
leaf,  tossed  up  to  heaven,  whirled  over  the  tree  tops,  driven 
down  again  into  the  mire.  Strong  woman  that  she  was,  her 
very  strength  made  the  struggle  more  indecisive  and  more 
racking.  She  could  not  renounce  Pelleas  for  the  great  love 
she  bore  him,  and  yet  she  could  not  will  to  play  a  false  part 
by  reason  of  this  same  great  love.  Her  soul,  like  a  wanderer 
in  the  wilds,  halted  and  wavered  between  two  tracks  that  led 
forward  into  the  unknown. 

Garlotte  was  sleeping  in  the  far  corner  of  the  cottage. 
The  girl  had  given  up  her  bed  to  Igraine,  who  envied  her 
her  quiet,  restful  breathing  as  she  lay  and  listened.  In  her 
doubt  she  called  and  woke  Garlotte  from  her  sleep,  hardly 
knowing  indeed  what  she  desired  to  say  to  her,  yet  half 
fearful  of  lying  alone  longer  in  the  night  with  her  own 
thoughts  for  company.  Garlotte  rose  up  and  came  across 
the  room  to  the  bigger  bed.  She  knelt  down  ;  two  warm 
arms  crept  under  the  coverlet,  and  a  soft  cheek  touched 
Igraine's. 

"  Why  are  you  awake,  Igraine  ?  " 

The  warmth  of  the  girl's  body,  her  quiet  breathing,  the 
sweep  of  her  hair,  seemed  to  bring  a  scent  of  peace  and 
human  sympathy  into  the  moonlit  room.  Igraine  put  her 
arms  about  her,  and  drew  her  down  to  her  side.  Their  white 
faces  and  clouding  hair  lay  close  together  on  the  pillow. 

u  You  are  in  trouble,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  be  in  trouble  ?  " 

"  You  breathe  like  one  in  pain,  and  your  voice  is  strange." 

"  Hush,  Garlotte." 

"  Am  I  not  right  ?  " 

"  Pelleas  must  not  hear  us  talking." 

They  were  silent  awhile,  lying  in  each  other's  arms  with 
no  sound  save  that  of  their  breathing.  Igraine's  misery 
burnt  in  her  and  cried  out  for  sympathy  ;  Garlotte,  half  wise 
by  instinct,  yearned  to  share  a  trouble  which  she  did  not 


296  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

wholly  comprehend,  to  advise  where  she  was  partly  ignorant. 
The  girl  felt  a  great  stirring  of  her  heart  towards  Igraine, 
but  could  say  nothing  for  the  moment.  Having  no  better 
eloquence  at  command  she  raised  her  head  and  kissed  the 
other's  lips,  a  warm,  impulsive  kiss  that  seemed  as  rich  in 
sympathy  as  a  rose  in  scent. 

Igraine's  confidence  woke  at  the  touch  of  the  girl's  lips ; 
she  hungered  even  for  this  child's  comfort,  her  simple  guid- 
ance in  this  matter  of  life  and  love.  It  was  easy  enough  to 
die,  hard  to  exist  as  a  mere  spiritless  Galatea  devoid  of  soul. 

"  Garlotte ! " 

"  Yes,  Igraine." 

"  Imagine  that  you  were  married  to  a  man  you  hated,  and 
you  loved  Renan." 

Garlotte  raised  herself  in  bed. 

"  And  Renan  loved  you  and  knew  nothing  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Would  you  tell  Renan  the  truth  ?  " 

Garlotte  remained  motionless,  propped  on  her  two  hands, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window  into  the  streaming  moon- 
light. Her  brown  hair  touched  Igraine's  face  as  she  lay 
still  and  watched  her.  The  room  was  very  silent,  not  a 
breeze  seemed  stirring,  the  roses  athwart  the  window  were 
still  as  though  carved  in  wood. 

Garlotte  spoke  very  softly,  looking  up  with  her  face 
white  and  solemn  in  the  moonlight. 

"  I  should  tell  Renan,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  love  him." 

«Yes  —  go  on." 

"  I  should  not  love  him  rightly  in  God's  eyes  if  I  kept 
him  from  the  truth." 

The  coverlet  rose  and  fell  over  Igraine's  bosom,  and  there 
was  a  queer  twisting  pain  at  her  heart. 

"  But  if  you  were  never  to  see  Renan  again  ?  "  she  said. 

"  If  I  told  him  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,  child." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  29? 

Garlotte  dared  not  look  into  Igraine's  face ;  her  lips  were 
twitching,  and  her  eyes  were  hot  with  tears. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  faltered. 

"  Think,  child,  think  !  " 

"  I  should  not  tell  him." 

In  half  a  breath  she  had  contradicted  herself  with  a  little 
gasp. 

u  Yes,  yes,  I  should  tell  him." 

"  The  truth  ?  " 

"  Because  I  should  not  be  happy  even  with  him  if  I  were 
acting  a  lie." 

Igraine  gave  a  dry  sob,  and  drew  Garlotte  down  again 
to  her  side.  They  lay  very  close,  almost  mouth  to  mouth, 
their  arms  about  each  other's  bodies. 

«  I  love  Pelleas." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  I  will  tell  him  the  truth." 

"  Ah,  Igraine,  it  is  best,  it  is  best." 

"  But  it  will  kill  me  if  I  lose  him." 

"  Ah,  Igraine,  but  he  will  love  you  all  the  more." 

It  was  Garlotte  who  broke  into  tears,  and  hid  her  face  in 
the  other's  bosom.  Igraine's  eyes  were  as  dry  as  a  blue  sky 
parched  with  a  summer  sun,  and  her  voice  failed  her  like 
the  slack  string  of  a  lute.  The  moonlight  slanted  down 
upon  them  both.  Before  dawn  they  had  fallen  asleep  in 
each  other's  arms. 

How  many  a  heart  trembles  with  the  return  of  day ; 
what  fears  rise  with  the  first  blush  of  light  in  an  empty  sky  ! 
The  cloak  of  night  is  lifted  from  weary  faces  ;  the  quiet 
balm  of  darkness  is  withdrawn  from  the  moiling  care  of 
many  a  heart.  To  Igraine  the  dawn  light  came  like  a 
message  of  misery  as  she  lay  beside  the  sleeping  Garlotte, 
and  watched  the  gloom  grow  less  and  less  in  the  little  room. 
This  dawn  seemed  a  veritable  symbol  of  the  truth  that  she 
feared  to  look  upon  —  and  recognise.  The  night  seemed 
kinder,  less  implacable,  less  grave  of  face.  Day,  like  a  pale 
justiciary,  stalked  up  out  of  the  east  to  call  her  to  that 


298  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

assize  where  truth  and  the  soul  meet  under  the  eye  of 
heaven. 

How  different  was  it  with  Pelleas  under  the  eaves  of  the 
great  cedar.  He  had  slept  little  that  night  for  mere  wake- 
ful happiness ;  the  moon  had  kept  carnival  for  him  above 
the  world ;  at  dawn  the  stars  had  crept  back  from  the  choir 
stalls  into  the  chambers  of  the  night.  He  had  known  no 
weariness,  no  abatement  of  his  deep  calm  joy.  His  heart 
had  answered  blithely  to  the  dawn-song  of  the  birds  as 
though  he  had  risen  fresh  from  a  dreamless  sleep.  The  day 
to  him  had  no  look  of  evil  ;  the  sky  was  never  grey  ;  the  flush 
in  the  east  recalled  no  flashing  of  torches  over  a  funeral  bier. 
He  rose  up  in  the  glory  of  his  clean  manhood,  the  strong 
kindliness  of  his  great  love.  His  prayers  went  to  heaven  that 
morning  with  the  lark,  and  the  Spirit  of  God  seemed  like  a 
wind  moving  softly  in  the  green  boughs  above  his  head. 

Very  early  before  it  was  light  he  had  taken  a  plunge  and  a 
swim  in  the  pool,  a  swinging  burst  through  the  still  water 
that  had  made  him  revel  in  his  great  strength.  He  had 
come  up  from  the  pool  like  a  god  refreshed,  and  had  put  on 
his  red  harness  while  the  mists  rose  from  the  valley,  and  the 
birds  chanted  in  the  ghostly  trees.  When  the  day  was 
fully  awake  he  walked  the  grass-path  in  the  garden  like  a 
watchman,  with  the  scent  of  honeysuckle  and  thyme  in  his 
nostrils,  and  a  blaze  of  flowers  at  his  feet.  As  he  paced  up 
and  down  with  his  face  turned  to  the  sky,  he  sang  in  a 
mellow  bass  a  song  of  Guyon's,  the  Court  minstrel  — 

"  When  the  dawn  has  come, 

My  heart  sighs  for  thee  and  the  gleam  of  thy  hair ; 

Eyes  deep  as  the  night 

When  the  summer  sky  arches  the  world." 

So  sang  Pelleas  as  he  paced  the  grass  with  his  eyes  wan- 
dering ever  towards  the  doorway  of  the  cottage. 

Presently  Igraine  came  out  to  him,  and  stood  under  the 
shadow  of  the  porch.  Her  hair  hung  lustrous  about  a  face 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  299 

that  was  white  and  drawn,  despite  a  smile.  Certainly  a  haze 
of  red  flushed  her  cheeks  when  Pelleas  came  up  with  a  glory 
of  love  in  his  eyes,  took  her  hands  and  kissed  them,  as  though 
there  was  no  such  divine  flesh  in  the  whole  wide  world. 
How  wonderful  it  was  to  be  touched  so,  to  have  such  ey"es 
pouring  out  so  strong  a  soul  before  her  face,  to  know  the 
presence  of  a  great  love,  and  to  feel  the  echoing  passion  of 
it  in  her  own  heart ! 

After  the  barren  months  of  winter,  and  the  long  bondage 
in  Tintagel,  it  seemed  an  idyllic  thing  to  be  so  served,  so 
comforted.  And  was  this  faery  time  but  for  an  hour,  a  day, 
and  no  longer  ?  Was  she  but  to  see  the  man's  face,  to  feel 
the  touch  of  his  hands,  the  grand  calm  of  his  love,  before 
losing  him,  perhaps  for  life  ?  Her  heart  fluttered  in  her  like 
a  smitten  bird.  And  Pelleas,  too,  what  a  thrust  lurked  for 
the  man,  a  blow  to  be  given  in  the  name  of  truth.  How 
could  she  speak  to  him  of  Gorlois  when  he  came  and  looked 
1  at  her  with  those  eyes  of  his  ? 

Igraine  had  never  felt  such  misery  as  this  even  in  the 
gloomy  galleries  of  Tintagel.  It  tried  her  courage  to  the 
death  to  face  Pelleas's  wistful  gaiety,  and  the  adoration  that 
beamed  on  her  from  his  eyes. 

"  Dear  heart,  it  is  dawn  —  it  is  dawn  !  " 

Pelleas  held  her  hands,  and  waited  for  her  lips  to  be 
turned  to  his.  Instead,  he  saw  lowered  lids  and  quivering 
lashes,  lips  that  were  plaintive,  a  face  white  beneath  a  wealth 
of  hair, 

"  Ah,  Igraine,  you  do  not  look  at  me." 

Her  eyes  .trembled  up  to  his  with  a  sudden  infinite 
lustre. 

«  Pelleas  !  " 

"  Girl,  girl !  " 

"  Ah,  I  have  hardly  slept." 

"  Nor  I,  Igraine." 

"  I  think  I  am  worn  out  with  thinking  of  you." 

"  Ha,  little  woman,  you  are  extravagant ;  you  will  die  like 
a  flower  even  while  I  hold  you  in  my  bosonr." 


300  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

Garlotte  came  out  from  the  cottage,  and  was  kissed  by 
Pelleas  on  the  lips.  The  girl's  eyes  were  red  and  heavy  ; 
she  had  been  crying  but  a  moment  ago  in  the  shadow  of  the 
cottage  room,  and  she  was  timid  and  very  solemn.  Pelleas 
looked  at  her  like  a  big  brother. 

"  Come  now,  little  sister,"  he  said,  with  a  rare  smile  ; 
"  methinks  you  must  be  in  love  too  by  your  looks." 

"Yes,  lord." 

"  Said  I  not  so  ?     You  women  take  things  so  to  heart." 

"  Yes,  lord." 

"  What  a  solemn  face,  little  sister  !  " 

Garlotte  mastered  herself  for  a  moment,  then  burst  into 
tears  and  ran  back  into  the  cottage.  Pelleas  coloured, 
looked  troubled,  glanced  at  Igraine,  thinking  he  had  hurt 
the  girl's  heart  with  his  words.  Igraine's  face  startled  him 
as  if  the  visage  of  death  had  risen  up  suddenly  amid  the 
flowers.  He  stood  mute  before  her  watching  her  starved 
lips,  her  drawn  face,  her  eyes  that  stared  beyond  him  with  a 
kind  of  cold  frenzy. 

"  Pelleas,  Pelleas  !  " 

It  was  like  the  wild  cry  of  a  woman  over  her  dead  love. 
The  sound  struck  Pelleas  with  a  vague  sense  of  stupendous 
woe,  a  dim  prophecy  of  evil  like  the  noise  of  autumn  in 
the  woods.  Before  he  could  gather  words,  Igraine  had 
turned  and  run  from  him  as  in  great  fear,  skirting  the  pool 
and  holding  for  the  black  yawn  of  the  forest  aisles.  Pelleas 
started  to  follow  her  in  a  daze  of  wonder.  Was  the  girl 
mad  ?  Had  love  turned  her  brain  ?  What  was  there  hid 
in  her  heart  that  made  her  wing  from  him  like  a  dove  from 
a  hawk  ? 

By  the  trees  Igraine  slackened  and  turned  breathless  on 
the  man  as  he  came  towards  her  through  the  long  grass. 
Her  eyes  were  dim  and  frightened,  her  lips  twitching,  and 
there  was  a  bleak  hunted  look  upon  her  face  that  made  her 
seem  white  and  old.  Pelleas's  blood  ran  cold  in  him  like 
water ;  a  vague  dread  sapped  his  manhood ;  he  stared  at 
Igraine  and  was  speechless. 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  301 

The  girl  put  her  arm  before  her  eyes  and  shook  as  she 
stood.  Pelleas  fell  on  his  knees  with  a  cry,  and  reached 
for  her  hand. 

"  Igraine,  Igraine  !  " 

She  snatched  her  arm  away  and  would  not  look  at  him. 

"  My  God,  what  is  this,  Igraine  ?  " 

u  Don't  touch  me  ;  I  am  Gorlois's  wife  !  " 

A  vast  silence  seemed  to  fall  sudden  on  the  world.  It 
might  have  been  dead  of  night  in  winter,  with  deep  snow 
upon  the  ground  and  no  wind  stirring  in  the  forest.  To 
Igraine,  swaying  in  an  agony  with  her  arm  over  her  face, 
the  silence  came  like  the  hush  that  might  fall  on  heaven 
before  the  damning  of  a  lost  soul  to  hell.  She  wondered 
what  was  in  Pelleas's  heart,  and  dared  not  look  at  him  or 
meet  his  eyes.  God  in  heaven !  would  the  man  never 
speak ;  would  the  silence  crawl  on  into  an  eternity  ! 

At  last  she  did  look,  and  nearly  fell  at  the  wrench  of 
it.  Pelleas  was  standing  near  her  looking  at  her  with  his 
great  solemn  eyes  as  though  she  had  given  him  his  death. 
His  face  seemed  to  have  gone  grey  and  haggard  in  a 
moment. 

"Gorlois's  wife  !  "  was  all  he  said. 

Igraine  hung  her  head,  shivered,  and  said  nothing. 
Pelleas  never  stirred  ;  he  seemed  like  so  much  stone,  a  mere 
pillar  of  granite  misery.  Igraine  could  have  writhed  at  his 
feet  and  caught  him  by  the  knees  only  to  melt  for  a 
moment  that  white  calm  on  his  face  that  looked  like  the 
mask  of  death. 

A  voice  that  was  almost  strange  to  her  startled  her  out 
of  her  stupor  of  despair. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  wed,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  Nine  months,  Pelleas." 

The  man  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  himself  as 
though  he  strove  after  the  truth,  yet  could  not  confront  it 
for  all  his  strength.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  like  the 
voice  of  a  man  winded  by  hard  running.  He  appeared  to 
urge  himself  forward,  to  goad  his  courage  to  a  task  that  he 


302  UTHER   AND  IGRAINE 

dreaded.  There  was  great  anguish  on  his  face  as  he  looked 
into  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  I  must  speak  what  I  know,  Igraine." 

The  words  seemed  slow  with  effort.  Igraine  watched 
him  in  silence,  full  of  a  vague  dread. 

"  Gorlois  has  spoken  to  me  of  his  wife." 

"  Say  on,  Pelleas." 

Pelleas  hesitated. 

"  The  truth  —  tell  me  the  truth." 

She  was  almost  clamorous.      Pelleas  plunged  on. 

"  Gorlois  told  me  how  his  wife  was  faithless  to  him,  how 
she  had  fled  with  Brastias,  the  knight  who  had  ward  over 
her  at  Caerleon.  I  never  knew  her  name  until  this  hour." 

The  words  might  have  fallen  like  the  strokes  of  a  lash. 
Igraine  stood  and  stared  at  the  man,  her  open  mouth  a 
black  circle,  her  eyes  expressionless  for  the  moment,  like 
the  eyes  of  one  smitten  blind.  The  full  meaning  of  the 
words  numbed  her  and  hindered  her  understanding.  A 
babel  of  shame  sounded  in  her  ears.  The  sinister  intent  of 
the  man's  accusation  rose  gradual  before  her  reason  like  the 
distorted  image  of  a  dream.  She  felt  cold  to  the  core ;  a 
strange  terror  possessed  her. 

"  Pelleas,  what  have  you  said  to  me  ?  " 

Her  voice  was  a  mere  whisper.  Pelleas  hung  his  head 
and  said  never  a  word.  His  silence  seemed  to  fling  sudden 
fire  into  Igraine's  eyes,  and  her  face  flamed  like  a  sunset. 
It  might  have  been  Gorlois  who  stood  and  challenged  the 
honour  of  her  soul. 

"  Man,  tell  me  what  is  in  your  heart." 

Her  voice  was  shrill  —  even  imperious.  Pelleas  hung 
his  head. 

u  Gorlois  keeps  poison  for  his  wife,"  were  his  words. 

Igraine's  lips  curled. 

"  A  sword  for  Brastias." 

"  Generous  man." 

Pelleas  was  watching  her  as  a  prisoner  watches  a  judge. 
He  had  a  great  yearning  to  believe.  Fear,  anguish,  anger, 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  303 

were  in  Igraine's  heart,  but  she  showed  none  of  the  three 
as  she  stood  forward  and  looked  into  the  man's  eyes  with  a 
steadfastness  no  honour  could  gainsay. 

"  Pelleas  !  "  she  said. 

"  Girl ! " 

"  Look  into  my  eyes." 

He  did  so  without  flinching.  Igraine  took  his  sword 
and  gave  it  naked  into  his  hand. 

"  Listen  !      Gorlois  told  you  a  lie." 

"  Igraine  !  " 

"  Do  you  believe  me,  Pelleas  ?  If  not,  strike  with  the 
sword,  for  I  will  live  no  longer." 

The  man  gave  a  sudden  cry,  like  one  who  leaps  over  a 
precipice,  threw  the  sword  far  away  into  the  grass,  and 
falling  on  his  knees,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 


XII 

IGRAINE  stood  and  watched  Pelleas  as  he  knelt  in  the  grass 
at  her  feet  with  his  face  hidden  from  her  by  his  hands.  She 
saw  the  curve  of  his  strong  neck,  the  sweep  of  his  great 
shoulders.  She  even  counted  the  steel  plates  in  his  shoulder 
pieces,  and  marked  the  tinge  of  grey  in  his  coronal  of  hair. 

Calm  had  come  upon  her  with  the  trust  won  by  the 
confessional  of  the  sword.  She  felt  sure  of  the  man  in  her 
heart,  and  eased  of  a  double  burden  since  she  had  told  him 
the  truth  and  brought  him  to  a  declaration  of  his  faith. 
She  knew  well  from  instinct  that  her  honour  stood  sure  in 
Pelleas's  heart. 

Going  to  him,  she  bent  and  touched  his  head  with  her 
hand. 

"  Pelleas,"  she  said  very  softly. 

The  man  groaned  and  would  not  look  at  her. 

"  Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa  !  "   was  his  cry. 

Igraine  smiled  like  a  young  mother  as  she  put  his  hands 


304  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

from  his  face  with  a  gradual  insistence.  It  was  right  that 
he  should  kneel  to  her,  but  it  was  also  right  that  she  should 
forgive  and  forget  like  a  woman.  Yet  as  she  stood  and 
held  his  hands  in  hers,  Pelleas  hung  his  head  and  would  not 
so  much  as  look  into  her  face.  He  was  convicted  in  his 
own  heart,  and  contrite  according  to  the  deep  measure  of 
his  manhood. 

Igraine  touched  his  hair  softly  with  her  fingers,  and  there 
was  a  great  light  in  her  eyes  as  she  bent  over  him. 

"  Come,  Pelleas,  and  sit  by  me  under  the  trees,  and  I  will 
tell  you  the  whole  tale." 

Never  had  she  seemed  so  stately  or  so  superb  in  Pelleas's 
eyes  as  she  stood  before  him  that  morning,  strong  and 
sorrowful  with  the  burden  of  her  past.  He  knelt  and 
looked  up  at  her,  knowing  himself  pardoned,  humbled  to 
see  love  in  the  ascendent  so  soon  upon  her  face  as  she 
looked  down  at  him  from  her  golden  aureole  of  hair. 

"  I  am  forgiven  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Ah,  Pelleas  !  " 

"You  have  shamed  me;  I  am  a  broken  man." 

He  rose  up  half  wearily  and  stood  looking  at  her  as 
though  some  mysterious  influence  had  parted  them  suddenly 
asunder.  So  expressive  were  his  eyes,  that  Igraine  read  a 
distant  anguish  in  them  on  the  instant,  and  fathomed  his 
thoughts,  to  the  troubling  of  her  own  heart. 

"  Look  not  so,"  she  said,  "  as  though  a  gulf  lay  deep 
between  us  here." 

"  How  else  should  I  look  at  you,  Igraine,  when  you  are 
wife  to  Gorlois  ?  " 

"  Never  in  my  soul." 

"  How  can  that  help  us  ?  " 

Igraine  winced  at  the  words  and  took  refuge  in  silence. 
She  went  and  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  a  gnarled  oak. 
Pelleas  followed  her  and  lay  down  more  than  a  sword's 
length  away,  leaving  a  stretch  of  green  turf  between,  a 
thing  insignificant  in  itself,  yet  full  of  meaning  to  the  girl's 
instinctive  watchfulness.  The  man's  face  too  was  turned 


THE  WAR  IN   WALES  305 

from  her  towards  the  valley,  and  she  could  only  see  the 
curve  of  his  cheek  and  chin  as  she  began  to  speak  to  him  of 
that  which  was  in  her  heart. 

"  You  know  the  man  Gorlois  ?  "  she  said. 

Pelleas  nodded. 

"  In  Winchester  Gorlois  saw  my  face  and  straightway 
pestered  me  as  he  had  been  turned  into  my  shadow.  By 
chance  he  had  rendered  me  service,  and  from  the  favour 
casually  conferred  plucked  the  right  of  thrusting  his  per- 
petual homage  upon  me.  I  trusted  Gorlois  little  from  the 
beginning,  and  trusted  him  less  as  the  weeks  went  by. 
His  eyes  frightened  me,  and  his  mouth  made  my  soul 
shiver ;  the  more  importunate  he  grew  the  more  I  began  to 
fear  him." 

Pelleas  shifted  his  sword  and  said  nothing. 

"  A  day  came  when  the  man  Gorlois  grew  tired  of 
courtesies,  and  would  be  gainsaid  no  longer.  It  was  in 
Radamanth's  garden  ;  we  quarrelled,  and  the  man  laid  hands 
upon  me  and  crushed  me  against  the  wall  to  thieve  a  kiss. 
In  my  anger  I  broke  from  him  and  ran  into  my  uncle's 
house.  The  same  night  I  fled  to  an  abbey,  the  abbey  of 
St.  Helena,  and  left  Winchester  in  my  dress  at  dawn." 

Igraine  could  see  the  muscles  of  Pelleas's  jaw  standing 
out  contracted  as  though  his  teeth  were  clenched  in  an 
access  of  anger.  He  was  breathing  deeply  through  his 
nostrils,  and  his  hands  plucked  at  the  grass  with  a  terse 
snapping  sound.  These  things  pleased  Igraine,  and  she 
went  on  forthwith. 

"  I  left  Winchester  on  foot  at  dawn  and  travelled  towards 
Sarum,  for  I  heard  that  Uther  the  King  was  there,  and 
it  was  greatly  in  my  mind,  sire,  to  see  his  face.  An  old 
merchant  friend  of  Radamanth's  overtook  me  on  the  road  ; 
at  a  ford  the  horse  he  had  lent  me  fell  and  twisted  my 
ankle.  I  was  carried  to  Eudol's  house,  and  lay  abed  there 
many  days,  learning  little  to  my  comfort  that  Gorlois  had 
ridden  out  and  was  hunting  me  through  the  countryside. 
Recovered  of  my  strain,  and  fearful  of  Gorlois's  trackers,  I 


306  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

held  on  for  Sarum  through  the  woods,  and  lodged  the  same 
night  in  a  hermitage  in  a  little  valley.  Here  the  first  piece 
of  craft  overtook  me,  for  early  in  the  morning  outside  the 
hermitage  I  saw  a  knight  ride  by  on  a  black  horse,  bearing 
red  harness,  and  armed  at  all  points  like  to  you." 

Pelleas  turned  his  head  for  the  first  time  and  looked  at 
her  as  though  with  some  sudden  suspicion  of  what  was  to 
follow.  Igraine  saw  something  in  his  dark  eyes  that  made 
her  heart  hurry.  His  face  was  like  the  face  of  a  man  who 
fronts  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain  with  brows  furrowed  and 
eyes  half-closed.  There  was  much  that  was  threatening  in 
his  look,  a  subdued  ominous  wrath  like  a  storm  nursed  in 
the  bosom  of  a  cloud. 

Igraine  told  the  whole  quaint  tale,  how  she  followed 
Gorlois  in  faith,  how  she  was  led  into  the  forest,  bewitched 
there,  and  made  a  wife,  mesmerised  into  a  false  affection  for 
the  man  by  Merlin's  craft.  It  was  a  grim  tale,  with  a  clear 
contour  of  truth,  and  credible  by  reason  of  its  very  strange- 
ness. It  was  sufficient  to  manifest  to  Pelleas  how  Igraine's 
strong  love  for  him  had  lost  her  her  liberty  and  made  her 
the  victim  of  a  man's  lust. 

When  she  had  ended  the  tale  Pelleas  left  the  grass  at  her 
feet  and  began  to  pace  under  the  trees  like  a  sentinel  on  a 
wall.  His  scabbard  clanged  occasionally  against  his  greaves. 
Masses  of  young  bracken  covered  the  ground  between  the 
trees  with  a  rich  carpet  of  green,  and  his  armour  shone  like 
red  wrath  under  the  wreathing  arcs  of  foliage.  His  face 
was  dark  and  moody  with  the  turmoil  of  thought,  but  there 
was  no  visible  agitation  upon  him  ;  nothing  of  the  aspen, 
more  of  the  unbending  oak.  Igraine  leant  against  her  tree 
and  watched  him  with  a  curious  care,  wondering  what 
would  be  the  outcome  of  all  this  silence.  Down  in  the 
valley  the  pool  glistened,  and  she  could  see  Garlotte  walking 
in  the  cottage  garden.  How  different  was  this  child's  lot 
to  hers.  With  what  warm  philosophy  could  she  have 
changed  Pelleas  into  a  shepherd,  and  taken  the  part  of 
Garlotte  to  herself. 


THE   WAR  IN-  WALES  307 

Presently  Pelleas  stayed  in  his  stride  through  the 
bracken,  and  came  and  stood  before  her,  looking  not 
into  her  face  but  beyond  her  into  the  deeps  of  the 
wood. 

u  Tell  me  more,  Igraine." 

"  What  more  would  you  hear  from  me  ? " 

"  That  which  is  bitterest  of  all." 

"  God,  must  I  tell  you  that !  " 

"  Let  us  both  drink  it  to  the  dregs." 

Igraine's  face  and  neck  coloured  rich  as  one  of  Garlotte's 
red  roses,  and  she  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  man's  eyes 
behind  the  quivering  sunlight  of  her  hair.  She  put  her 
hands  to  her  breast  and  stood  in  a  strain  of  thought,  of 
struggle  against  the  infinite  unfitness  of  the  past. 

Pelleas  saw  her  trouble,  and  his  strong  face  softened  on 
the  instant.  He  had  forgotten  milder  things  in  his  grap- 
pling of  the  truth.  Igraine's  red  and  troubled  look  re- 
vived the  finer  instincts  of  his  manhood. 

"  Never  trouble,  child,"  he  said ;  "  I  know  enough  of 
Gorlois  to  read  the  rest." 

But  Igraine,  as  by  inspiration,  had  come  by  other  reasons 
for  telling  out  the  whole  to  the  last  pang.  She  was  at  pains 
to  justify  herself  to  Pelleas,  nor  was  she  undesirous  of  in- 
flaming him  against  Gorlois,  her  lord.  She  had  wit  enough 
to  grasp  the  fact  that  Pelleas's  wrath  might  be  roused  into 
insurrection  against  custom  and  the  edicts  of  the  Church. 
A  volcanic  outburst  might  throw  down  the  barriers  of  man 
and  leave  her  at  liberty  to  choose  her  lot.  Moreover,  her 
hate  of  Gorlois,  an  iconoclastic  passion,  had  crushed  the 
reverence  of  things  existing  out  of  her  heart.  A  contem- 
plation of  her  evil  fortune  had  brought  her  to  the  conviction 
that  she  was  exiled  from  the  sympathies  of  men,  a  spiritual 
bandit  driven  to  compass  the  instincts  of  a  rebellious  soul. 
In  her  hot  impulse  for  liberty  and  the  justification  of  her 
faith,  she  did  not  halt  from  making  Pelleas  feel  the  full 
malignity  of  truth.  She  neither  embellished  nor  emphasised, 
but  portrayed  incidents  simply  in  their  glaring  nakedness  in 


308  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

a  fashion  that  promised  to  inflame  the  man  to  the  very  top 
of  her  desire. 

Igraine's  cheeks  kindled,  and  she  could  not  look  at  the 
man  for  the  words  upon  her  lips.  Pelleas's  face  was  like 
the  face  of  man  in  torture.  The  woman's  words  entered 
into  him  like  iron  ;  his  wrath  whistled  like  a  wind,  and  the 
very  air  seemed  tainted  in  his  mouth.  What  a  purgatory 
of  passion  was  let  loose  into  the  calm  precincts  of  the  place  ! 
This  burning  vault  of  blue,  was  it  the  same  as  roofed  the 
world  of  yesterday  ?  The  feathery  mounts  of  green  dappled 
with  amber,  and  these  flowers,  had  they  not  changed  with 
the  noon  lust  of  the  sun  ?  There  was  a  rank  savour  of 
fleshliness  over  the  whole  earth,  and  all  life  seemed  impious, 
passionate,  and  unclean. 

"  My  God,  my  God  !  " 

The  man's  cry  shook  Igraine  from  her  rage  for  truth. 
In  her  confessional  she  had  been  carried  like  a  bird  with 
the  wind.  Looking  into  Pelleas's  face  she  saw  that  he  was 
in  torment,  and  that  her  words  had  smitten  him  in  a  fashion 
other  than  she  had  foreseen.  It  was  not  wrath  that  burnt 
in  his  eyes,  only  a  deep  grieving,  a  frenzy  of  shame  and 
anguish  that  seemed  to  cry  out  against  her  soul.  A 
sudden  stupor  made  her  mute.  With  a  great  void  in  her 
heart  she  fell  down  amid  the  bracken  with  a  sense 
of  ignominy  and  abasement  overwhelming  her  like  a 
deluge. 

Pelleas  stood  and  shut  his  eyes  to  the  sun.  A  red  glare 
smote  into  his  brain ;  love  seemed  numb  in  him  and  his 
blood  stagnant.  Prayer  eluded  him  like  a  vapour.  Look- 
ing out  again  over  wood  and  valley,  the  golden  haze,  the 
torpor  of  the  trees  mocked  him  with  a  lethargy  that  smiled 
at  the  impotence  of  man. 

And  Igraine  !  He  saw  her  prone  beneath  the  green  mist 
of  the  fern  fronds,  lying  with  her  face  pillowed  on  her  arms, 
her  hair  spread  like  a  golden  net  over  the  brown  wreckage 
of  the  bygone  year.  To  what  a  pass  had  their  love  come ! 
Better,  he  thought,  to  have  lived  a  king  solitary  on  a  throne 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  309 

than  to  have  wandered  into  youth  again  to  give  and  win 
such  dolor. 

His  face  was  dark  as  he  stood  and  looked  at  the  woman's 
violet  surcoat  gleaming  low  under  the  bracken.  How 
symbolical  this  attitude  seemed  of  all  that  had  fallen  upon 
his  heart  —  love  cast  down  upon  dead  leaves  !  Igraine  had 
feared  his  honour.  Pelleas  feared  for  it  in  another  sense  as 
he  looked  at  the  woman,  and  felt  his  pity  clamouring  for 
life.  He  could  have  given  his  soul  to  comfort  her  if  no 
shame  could  have  come  upon  her  name  thereby.  As  it  was, 
some  spiritual  hand  seemed  at  his  throat  stifling  aught  of 
love  that  found  impulse  on  his  lips.  A  superhuman  sincerity 
chilled  him  into  silence,  and  held  him  in  bondage  to  the 
truth. 

A  face  stared  up  from  the  bracken,  wan,  tearless,  and 
tragic.  The  wistfulness  of  the  face  made  him  quail  within 
his  harness.  He  knew  too  well  what  was  in  Igraine's  heart, 
and  the  look  that  questioned  him  like  the  look  of  a  wounded 
hare.  Her  eyes  searched  his  face  as  though  to  read  her 
doom  thereon.  There  was  no  whimpering,  no  noise,  no 
passionate  rhetoric.  A  great  quiet  seemed  to  take  its 
temper  from  the  silence  of  the  woods. 

«  Pelleas." 

"  Yes,  Igraine." 

"  Tell  me  what  is  in  your  heart." 

Pelleas  hung  his  head  ;  he  could  not  look  at  her  for  all 
his  courage.  She  was  kneeling  in  the  bracken  with  her 
hands  crossed  over  her  breast  and  her  face  turned  to  his 
with  the  white  wistfulness  of  a  full  moon.  Pelleas  felt  death 
in  his  heart,  and  he  could  not  speak  nor  look  into  her  eyes. 

"  Pelleas." 

"  Child." 

"  You  do  not  look  at  me." 

"  Great  God,  would  I  were  blind  !  " 

The  truth  came  crying  to  her  like  the  wild  cry  of  a  bird 
taken  by  a  weasel  in  the  woods.  A  great  sobbing  shook 
her ;  she  fell  down  and  caught  Pelleas  by  the  knees. 


310  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Pelleas,  Pelleas  !  " 

"  My  God,  Igraine,  I  stifle  !  " 

"  Don't  leave  me,  don't  send  me  away." 

u  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Only  look  into  my  eyes  again." 

Pelleas  put  his  fists  before  his  face ;  the  girl  felt  him 
quiver,  and  he  seemed  to  twist  in  an  agony  like  a  man 
dangling  on  a  rope.  Igraine's  hands  crept  to  his  shoulders ; 
she  drew  herself  by  his  body  as  by  a  pillar  till  her  face  met 
his  and  she  lay  heavy  upon  his  breast. 

"  Pelleas  !  " 

Her  breath  was  on  his  lips,  and  her  hair  flooded  over  his 
hands  like  golden  wine. 

"  Pelleas,  Pelleas  !  " 

The  words  came  with  a  windless  whisper. 

"  Have  pity,  Igraine." 

"  I  will  never  leave  you." 

«  Gorlois's  wife  !  " 

u  Never,  never !  " 

"  My  God  !  " 

"  I  am  not  his.  Pelleas,  take  me  body  and  soul ;  take 
me  and  let  me  be  your  wife." 

"  How  can  I  sin  against  your  soul,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  Is  it  sin,  then,  to  love  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  Gorlois's  wife  before  God." 

"  There  is  no  God." 

"  Igraine  !  " 

"  I  will  have  no  God  but  you,  Pelleas." 

The  man  took  his  hands. from  his  face  and  looked  into 
Igraine's  eyes.  A  strong  shudder  passed  over  him,  and  he 
seemed  like  a  great  ship  smitten  by  a  wave,  till  every  fibre 
groaned  and  quivered  in  his  massive  frame. 

A  green  calm  covered  the  valley,  and  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  faint  in  the  golden  bosom  of  the  day.  Not  the 
twitter  of  a  bird  broke  the  vast  hush  of  the  forest.  The 
sunlit  aisles  climbed  into  a  shadowland  of  mysterious  silence, 
and  an  azure  quiet  hung  above  the  trees.  As  for  Pelleas 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  311 

and  Igraine,  their  two  lives  seemed  knotted  up  with  a  cord 
of  gold.  They  had  mingled  breath,  and  taken  the  savour 
of  each  other's  souls.  Yet  for  all  the  glory  of  the  moment 
it  was  but  autumn  with  them  —  a  pomp  of  passion,  a  red 
splendour  dying  while  it  blazed  into  the  grey  ruin  of  a 
winter  day. 

Igraine  read  her  doom  in  the  man's  face.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  martyr,  pale,  resolute,  yet  inspired.  A  dry  sob 
died  in  her  throat,  and  her  hands  dropped  from  the  man's 
shoulders.  Pelleas  stood  back  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
warm  light  in  his  dark  eyes,  the  green  woods  rising  behind 
him  like  a  bank  of  clouds. 

"  Igraine." 

She  nodded,  felt  miserable,  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  cannot  love  you  easily." 

Igraine's  eyes  stared  at  him  with  a  mute  bitterness.  She 
was  a  woman,  and  thought  like  a  woman  ;  mere  saintly 
philosophy  was  beyond  her. 

"  You  are  too  good  a  man,  Pelleas,"  she  said. 

"  I  would  hold  my  love  in  my  heart  like  a  great  pearl  in 
a  casket  of  gold." 

"  What  comfort  is  there  in  mere  splendid  misery,  and  in 
such  words  ?  " 

u  How  should  I  love  you  best  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Pelleas,  ask  your  own  heart." 

The  man  was  an  impossible  being  for  mere  mortal  argu- 
ment. He  seemed  to  bear  spiritual  pinions  that  tantalised 
the  intelligence  of  the  heart.  Igraine  felt  herself  adrift  and 
beaten,  and  she  was  hopeless  of  him  to  the  core. 

"  Think  you  I  shall  be  a  saint,  Pelleas,"  she  said,  "  when 
you  have  given  me  back  to  myself?  " 

"  I  shall'  pray  for  you." 

"  And  for  a  devil !  " 

She  gave  a  shrill  laugh,  and  twined  her  hair  about  her 
wrist. 

"  Ah,  Pelleas !  you  know  not  what  you  do." 

"  Too  well,  Igraine." 


312  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"You  are  too  strong  for  me,  and  yet  —  and  yet  —  I 
should  not  have  loved  you  so  well  if  you  had  not  been 
strong." 

"  That  is  how  I  think  of  you,  Igraine." 

"  You  love  me  more  by  leaving  me." 

"  I  love  you  more  by  keeping  you  pure  before  my 
soul." 

A  great  calm  had  come  upon  Igraine.  She  was  very  pale 
and  firm  about  the  lips,  and  her  eyes  were  staunch  as  steel. 
Her  voice  was  as  clear  and  level  as  though  she  spoke  of 
trivial  tMngs. 

"  I  shall  not  go  back  to  Gorlois,"  she  said. 

"  Beware  of  the  man." 

"  Doubtless  you  would  speak  to  me  of  a  convent." 

Pelleas  fell  into  thought,  with  his  dark  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  face. 

"  As  a  novice." 

Igraine  almost  smiled  at  him. 

"  And  not  a  nun  ?  " 

For  answer  he  spoke  three  simple  words. 

"  Gorlois  might  die." 

The  stillness  of  the  woods  seemed  like  the  hush  of  a 
listening  multitude.  A  blue  haze  of  heat  hung  over  the 
rolling  domes  of  the  western  trees,  and  never  a  wind-wave 
stirred  the  long  grass.  Mountainous  clouds  sailed  radiant 
over  ridge  and  spur,  and  it  might  have  been  Elysium  where 
souls  wandered  through  meads  of  asphodel. 

Igraine  looked  long  over  the  valley  with  its  stately  trees, 
its  flowering  grass  and  quiet  pool  in  the  meadows.  She 
was  vastly  calm,  though  her  eyes  were  full  of  a  woe  that 
seemed  to  well  up  like  water  out  of  her  soul.  She  still 
twisted  and  untwisted  a  strand  of  her  hair  about  her  wrist, 
but  for  all  else  she  was  as  quiet  as  one  of  the  trees  that 
stood  near  and  overshadowed  her. 

"  Pelleas,"  she  said. 

The  man  came  two  steps  nearer. 

"  Go  quickly." 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  313 

"  Igraine ! " 

"  Man,  man,  how  long  will  you  torture  me  ?  I  am  only 
a  little  strong." 

The  calm  of  tragedy  seemed  to  dissolve  away  on  the 
instant.  Pelleas  thrust  his  hands  into  the  air  like  a  swim- 
mer sinking  to  his  death.  His  heart  answered  Igraine's 
exceeding  bitter  cry. 

"  Would  we  had  never  come  to  this  !  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that,  though  my  heart  breaks." 

Pelleas  fell  down  and  clasped  her  with  his  arms  about 
the  knees.  His  face  was  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  sur- 
coat.  Presently  he  loosed  his  hold,  looked  up,  took  a  ring 
from  his  hand  and  thrust  it  into  her  palm. 

"  The  signet  of  a  king,"  he  said ;  "  keep  it  for  need, 
Igraine.  Have  you  money  ?  " 

"  I  have  money,  Pelleas." 

"  God  guard  you  !  " 

Igraine  was  white  to  the  lips,  but  she  never  wavered. 

"  Heaven  keep  you  !  "  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  hoarse  in  her  throat,  and  she  began  to 
shiver  as  though  chilled  by  a  sleety  wind. 

"  Go  quickly,  Pelleas ;  for  God's  sake  hide  your  face 
from  me !  " 

"  It  is  death  ;  it  is  death  !  " 

He  sprang  up  and  left  her  without  a  look.  Igraine  saw 
him  go  through  the  long  grass  with  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
staggering  like  one  sword-smitten  to  the  brain.  He  never 
stared  back  at  her,  but  held  straight  for  the  cottage  and  the 
cedar  tree  where  his  black  horse  was  tethered  under  the 
shade.  She  watched  him  mount  and  gallop  for  the  forest, 
nor  did  she  move  till  his  red  harness  had  died  into  the  gloom 
of  the  trees. 

XIII 

DOWN  through  the  woods  that  morning  rode  Gorlois  on  his 
great  white  horse,  with  helmet  clanging  at  saddle-bow,  shield 


314  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

hung  at  his  left  shoulder,  spear  trailing  under  the  trees.  He 
was  hot,  thirsty,  and  in  a  most  evil  temper.  His  bronzed 
face  glistened  with  sweat,  and  the  chequered  webs  of  light 
flickering  through  the  leaves  flashed  fitfully  upon  his  golden 
harness.  Since  dawn  he  had  ridden  the  hills  in  the  glare  of 
the  sun  till  his  armour  blazed  like  an  oven  ;  it  was  June 
weather,  and  hot  at  that ;  his  tongue  felt  like  wood  rubbing 
against  leather;  it  was  a  damnable  month  for  bearing 
harness. 

Casting  about  over  the  hills  he  had  come  upon  Garlotte's 
valley,  and  seeing  it  green  and  shadowy,  had  plunged  down 
to  profit  by  the  shade.  Since  the  Red  Knight  was  lost  to 
him,  it  was  immaterial  whether  he  rode  by  wood  or  hill. 
On  this  account,  too,  Gorlois's  temper  was  as  hot  as  his  skin. 
He  hated  a  baulking  above  all  things ;  he  was  moved  to  be 
furious  with  trifles,  and  like  the  savage  who  gnashes  at  the 
stone  that  bruises  his  foot,  he  cursed  creation  and  felt 
thoroughly  at  war  with  the  world.  A  grim  unreason  had 
possession  of  him,  such  a  mood  as  makes  murder  a  mere 
impulse  of  the  hand,  and  malice  the  prime  instinct  of  the 
heart. 

As  he  rode  with  loose  rein  the  trees  thinned  suddenly, 
and  the  forest  gloom  rolled  back  over  his  head.  Gorlois 
halted  mechanically  under  the  wooelshawe,  and  scanned  the 
valley  spread  before  him  under  the  brown  hollow  of  his  hand. 
He  had  expected  no  such  open  land  in  this  waste  of  wood  — 
open  land  with  water,  a  cottage,  sheep  feeding,  and  horses 
tethered  under  the  trees.  One  of  the  horses  tethered  there 
was  a  black.  The  coincidence  livened  Gorlois's  torpid, 
sunburnt  face  with  a  cool  gleam  of  intelligence.  He  sat 
motionless  in  the  saddle  and  took  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  valley  under  the  keen  ken  of  his  black  eyes. 

The  man  swore  a  little  oath  into  his  peaked  black  beard. 
His  face  grew  suddenly  rapacious  as  he  stared  out  under 
the  hollow  of  his  hand.  He  had  seen  a  streak  of  red  strike 
through  the  green  wall  far  up  the  eastern  slope  that  fronted 
him,  a  scrap  of  colour  metallic  with  the  hint  of  armour. 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  315 

It  went  to  and  fro  under  the  distant  trees  like  a  torch 
past  the  windows  of  a  church.  Gorlois's  hand  tightened 
on  the  bridle.  He  watched  the  thing  as  a  hawk  watches  a 
young  rabbit  in  the  grass. 

Betimes  he  gave  a  queer  little  chuckle,  and  turned  his 
horse  into  the  deeper  shade  of  the  trees.  He  began  to  make 
a  circuit  round  the  valley,  holding  northwards  to  compass 
the  meadows.  He  cast  long,  wary  glances  into  the  wood  as 
he  went ;  tried  his  sword  to  see  that  it  was  loose  in  the 
scabbard  ;  took  his  helmet  from  the  saddle-bow,  and  let  down 
the  cheek-pieces  from  the  crown.  Before  long  he  kicked  his 
stirrups  away,  rolled  out  of  the  saddle,  and  tied  his  horse 
to  an  oak  sapling  in  a  little  dell.  Going  silently  on  foot 
over  the  mossy  grass,  stopping  often  to  stare  into  the  sunny 
vistas  of  the  forest,  moving  more  or  less  from  tree  to  tree, 
he  worked  his  way  southwards  along  the  eastern  slope. 
Streaks  of  meadowland  and  the  glint  of  water  showed  below 
him,  and  he  heard  the  bleat  of  sheep  far  away,  and  the 
tinkling  of  a  bell. 

Presently  the  murmur  of  voices  came  to  him  through  the 
woods.  He  ventured  on  another  fifty  paces,  then  stopped 
behind  a  tree  to  listen.  There  were  two  voices,  he  was 
sure^  of  that :  one  was  a  woman's,  and  the  other  had  the 
sonorous  vibration  of  a  man's  bass.  Gorlois's  eyes  took  a 
queer,  far-away  look,  and  his  strong  teeth  showed  between 
his  lips. 

He  worked  his  way  on  through  the  trees  with  the 
cautious  and  deliberate  instinct  of  a  hunter.  The  two 
voices  gained  in  timbre,  character,  and  expression.  Their 
talk  was  no  jays'  chatter ;  Gorlois  could  tell  that  from  the 
emphasis  of  sound,  and  a  certain  dramatic  melody  that  ran 
through  the  whole.  Soon  the  voices  were  very  near. 
Going  on  his  belly,  with  his  sword  held  in  his  left  hand,  he 
crawled  like  a  gilt  dragon  through  a  forest  of  springing 
fern.  He  crawled  on  till  he  was  quite  near  the  two  who 
stood  and  talked  under  the  trees.  Lying  flat,  never  ventur- 
ing to  lift  his  head,  he  crouched,  breathing  hard  through 


316  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

his  nostrils  and  holding  his  scabbarded  sword  crosswise 
beneath  his  chin. 

Gorlois's  face,  scarred  and  drawn  as  it  was,  seemed  as  he 
listened  a  clear  mirror  for  the  portrayal  of  human  passion. 
His  black  moustachios  twitched  above  his  angular  jaw;  his 
eyes  took  a  rapacious  and  glazed  look,  and  a  shadow  seemed 
to  cover  his  face.  He  turned  and  twisted  as  he  lay,  and 
dug  the  points  of  his  iron-shod  shoes  into  the  soft  ground  as 
though  in  the  crisis  of  some  pain.  It  was  the  woman's 
voice  that  did  all  this  for  him.  Every  word  seemed  like  the 
wrench  of  a  hook  in  his  flesh,  as  he  cursed  and  twisted 
under  the  bracken. 

Presently  he  lay  still  again,  as  though  to  listen  the 
better.  He  could  hear  something  of  what  was  said  to  the 
man  in  the  red  harness,  but  the  main  drift  of  their  talk  was 
beyond  him.  Pelleas  !  Pelleas  !  He  squirmed  like  a  crushed 
snake  at  each  sounding  of  the  name.  The  bracken  hardly 
swayed  as  he  crawled  on  some  twenty  paces  and  again  lay 
still,  with  his  cheek  resting  upon  the  scabbard  of  his  sword. 

"  Gorlois  might  die." 

Gorlois  heard  the  words  as  plainly  as  though  they  had 
been  spoken  into  his  ear.  A  vast  silence  hung  like  thunder 
over  the  forest.  Gorlois  lay  as  though  stunned  with  a 
stone,  his  dry  mouth  pressed  to  the  cold  steel  of  the  sword. 
His  eyes  took  a  stubborn  stare  under  the  sweep  of  his 
casque.  With  gradual  labour  he  raised  himself  upon 
his  elbows,  drew  his  knees  up  under  his  body,  and  lifted 
his  head  slowly  above  the  sweep  of  green. 

The  ground  fell  away  slightly  from  where  Gorlois  knelt 
in  the  bracken,  and  he  could  look  down  on  the  two  who 
stood  under  the  trees,  while  the  fern  fronds  hid  his  harness. 
He  saw  a  woman  in  violet  and  gold,  her  hair  falling  straight 
on  either  side  of  her  face,  and  her  arms  folded  crosswise 
over  her  breast.  He  saw  also  the  knight  in  red  harness, 
with  his  locked  hands  twisting  above  his  head  as  in  an  agony, 
while  his  face  was  hidden  by  his  arm.  A  passionate  whisper 
of  words  passed  between  the  two.  Even  when  Gorlois 


"  LIFTED  HIS  HEAD  SLOWLY  ABOVE  THE  SWEEP  OF  GREEN 


THE  WAR  IN  WALES  317 

watched,  the  man  in  the  red  harness  jerked  round  and  fell 
on  his  knees  at  the  woman's  feet.  Gorlois  suddenly  saw 
his  face  ;  it  was  the  face  of  Uther  the  King. 

Gorlois  dropped  back  under  the  bracken  as  though 
smitten  through  with  a  sword.  He  lay  there  a  long  while 
with  his  head  upon  his  arms.  A  sudden  breeze  came  up 
the  valley,  sounding  through  the  trees,  swaying  the  green 
fronds  above  the  man's  harness,  calling  a  gradual  clamour 
from  the  woods.  The  overmastering  image  of  the  King 
seemed  to  frown  down  Gorlois  for  the  moment,  and  he 
crouched  like  a  dog — with  the  courage  crushed  out  of  his  soul. 

Betimes  Gorlois's  reason  revived  from  the  stroke  that  had 
stunned  it  for  a  season.  Like  Jonah's  gourd  a  quick  purpose 
sprang  up  and  shadowed  him  from  the  too  hasty  heat  of  his 
own  passions.  He  was  a  virile  man,  capable  of  great  wrath 
and  great  resentment.  Yet  he  was  no  mere  firebrand. 
His  malice,  strangely  enough,  was  one-handed  and  reached 
out  only  against  the  woman.  For  Uther  he  conceived  a 
superhuman  envy,  a  passion  that  rose  above  mere  bloody 
expiation  by  the  sword.  Gorlois  had  the  wit  to  remember 
the  finer  cruelties  of  a  spiritual  vengeance,  the  gain  of 
wounding  the  soul  rather  than  the  flesh.  His  malice  was 
a  thing  fanatical  in  itself,  yet  taken  from  the  forge  to  be 
cooled  and  tempered  like  steel. 

When  he  lifted  his  head  again  above  the  bracken,  Uther 
had  gone,  and  Igraine  stood  alone  under  the  trees.  She 
stood  straight  and  motionless  as  some  tall  flower,  her  hair 
falling  like  quiet  sunlight,  unshaken  by  a  wind.  Her  great 
beauty  leapt  out  into  Gorlois's  blood  and  maddened  him. 
As  she  looked  out  over  the  valley,  Gorlois,  straining  his 
neck  above  the  bracken,  could  see  that  she  watched  Uther 
as  he  went  down  from  her  towards  the  pool.  Even  to 
Gorlois  there  was  something  tragic  about  the  solitary  figure 
under  the  trees,  a  stiff,  grievous  look  as  though  woe  had 
transformed  her  into  a  pillar  of  stone.  To  him  the  affair 
seemed  a  mere  assignation,  a  hazardous  passage  of  romance. 
Measuring  the  souls  of  others  by  his  own  morality,  he 


3l8  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

guessed  nothing  of  the  deeper  throes  that  surged  through 
the  tale  like  the  long  moan  of  a  night  wind. 

Gorlois  saw  Uther  and  his  black  horse  disappear  into  the 
opposing  bank  of  woodland.  Viciously  satisfied,  he  lay  in 
the  bracken  and  watched  Igraine,  coming  by  a  queer 
pleasure  in  considering  her  beauty,  and  in  the  knowledge 
that  her  very  life  was  poised  on  the  point  of  his  sword. 
How  little  she  thought  of  the  man-dragon  lying  in  his 
gilded  scales  under  the  green  of  the  feathery  fronds.  Gorlois 
felt  a  kind  of  arrogance  of  ownership  boasting  itself  in  his 
heart.  Certainly  he  held  a  means  more  sinister  than  the 
sword  wherewith  to  perfect  his  vengeance  and  to  preserve 
his  honour.  A  very  purgatory,  bolgia  upon  bolgia,  stretched 
out  in  prospect  for  the  souls  of  the  two  who  had  done  him 
this  great  evil.  Gorlois  made  much  of  it,  with  a  joy  that 
was  hard  and  durable  as  iron. 

Igraine  stirred  at  last  from  her  stupor  of  immobility. 
Walking  unsteadily,  as  though  faint  in  the  heat,  she  passed 
out  from  the  trees  with  their  mingling  of  sun  and  shadow, 
and  went  down  through  the  long  grass  towards  the  pool 
and  the  cottage.  Gorlois  knelt  in  the  bracken,  and  watched 
her  with  a  smile.  There  was  little  chance  of  her  escaping, 
and  he  could  be  as  deliberate  as  he  pleased  over  the  matter. 
He  inferred  with  reason  that  the  cottage  served  her  as  a 
lodging  in  this  woodland  solitude,  where  she  lay  hid  from 
all  the  world  save  from  Uther,  whose  courtezan  she  was. 
Gorlois  laughed  —  a  keen,  biting  laugh  —  at  the  thought  of  it 
all.  At  least  he  would  go  back  for  his  horse  and  spear,  and 
make  a  fitting  entry  before  the  woman  who  was  his  wife. 

Igraine,  walking  as  though  in  her  sleep,  came  into  the 
cottage,  and  almost  fell  into  Garlotte's  arms.  The  girl 
looked  frightened,  and  very  white  about  the  lips.  She 
could  find  nothing  in  her  heart  to  say  to  Igraine ;  she 
helped  her  to  the  bed,  and  ran  to  the  cupboard  to  get  wine. 

"  Drink  it,"  she  said,  the  cup  rocking  to  and  fro  in  her 
hand. 

Igraine  did  her  best,  but  spilt  much  of  the  stuff  upon  her 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  319 

bosom,  where  it  made  a  stain  like  blood.  She  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  looked  into  the  distance  with  expres- 
sionless eyes.  Her  hands  were  very  cold.  Garlotte  chafed 
them  between  her  own,  murmured  a  word  or  two,  but 
could  not  bring  herself  to  look  into  Igraine's  face.  From 
the  valley  the  bleating  of  sheep  came  up  with  a  sudden 
wind,  and  the  red  roses  flung  their  faces  across  the  latticed 
casement. 

Igraine  was  looking  through  the  window  into  the  deep 
green  of  the  woods.  She  could  see  the  place  where  Pelleas 
had  left  her,  even  the  tree  under  which  she  had  stood  when 
she  had  pleaded  with  him  without  avail.  How  utterly  quiet 
everything  seemed.  Surely  June  was  an  evil  month  for  her; 
had  it  not  brought  double  misery  —  and  well-nigh  broken  her 
heart  ?  And  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  she  was  to  go  back  to 
a  convent,  to  grey  walls,  vigils,  and  the  sounding  of  a  bell. 
Even  that  was  better  than  being  Gorlois's  wife. 

Suddenly,  as  she  sat  and  stared  out  of  the  casement,  her 
body  grew  tense  and  eager  as  a  bent  bow.  Her  eyes  hard- 
ened, lost  their  dreamy  look ;  the  hands  that  had  rested  in 
Garlotte's  gripped  the  girl's  wrists  with  a  force  that  made 
her  wince. 

"  Saddle  the  horse." 

The  words  came  in  a  hard  whisper.  Garlotte  stared  at 
her,  and  did  not  stir. 

"  Child,  never  question  me ;  be  quick,  on  your  life." 

Igraine,  a  different  woman  in  a  moment,  had  started  up 
and  taken  her  shield  and  helmet  from  the  wall.  Her  sword 
was  girded  to  her.  Quick  as  thought,  she  gathered  up  her 
trailing  hair,  thrust  on  the  casque,  strapped  it  to  the  neck- 
plate  under  her  surcoat.  Garlotte,  vastly  puzzled,  but  in- 
spired by  Igraine's  earnestness,  had  hurried  out  with  saddle 
and  bridle  over  her  shoulder.  As  she  ran  through  the  gar- 
den, she  looked  up  to  the  woods  and  saw  the  reason  of 
Igraine's  flurry.  A  knight  had  come  out  from  the  forest  on 
a  white  horse,  his  armour  flashing  and  blazing  in  the  noon- 
day sun.  He  had  halted  motionless  at  the  edge  of  the 


320  UTHER  AND  IGRA1NE 

woodland,  as  though  to  mark  what  was  passing  beneath 
him  in  the  valley. 

Garlotte  found  Igraine  armed  beside  her,  as  she  stood  by 
the  grey  horse  under  the  cedar,  and  tugged  with  trembling 
fingers  at  the  saddle  straps.  Bit  and  bridle  were  quickly  in 
place.  Igraine,  moved  by  a  hurried  tenderness,  gripped 
Garlotte  to  her  with  both  arms. 

"  God  guard  you,  little  sister'." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Igraine  ?  " 

"  God  knows  !  " 

"  Who  is  yonder  knight  ?  " 

"  Gorlots,  my  husband." 

Igraine  climbed  into  the  saddle  from  the  girl's  knee.  She 
dashed  in  the  spurs  and  went  at  a  gallop  over  the  meadows 
towards  the  south.  Gorlois's  white  horse  was  coming  at 
full  stride  through  the  feathery  grass.  The  man  was  riding 
crosswise  over  the  valley,  bent  on  cutting  off  Igraine  from 
the  southern  stretch  of  meadows,  and  driving  her  back  upon 
the  woods.  It  was  Igraine's  hope  to  overtake  Pelleas,  and 
to  put  herself  behind  the  barrier  of  his  shield.  Gorlois, 
guessing  her  desire,  drove  home  the  spurs,  and  hunted  her 
in  earnest. 

Igraine  headed  the  man  and  won  a  lead  in  the  first  half 
mile.  Her  grey  horse  plunged  like  a  galley  in  a  rough  sea, 
and  she  held  to  the  pommel  of  her  saddle  to  keep  her  seat. 
Gorlois  thundered  at  full  gallop  in  her  wake,  the  long  grass 
flying  before  his  horse's  hoofs  like  foam.  He  had  thrown 
away  his  spear,  and  his  eyes  were  set  in  a  long  stare  on  the 
galloping  horse  ahead.  The  zest  of  the  chase  had  hold  of 
him,  and  he  used  the  spurs  with  heavy  heel. 

The  green  woods  rolled  down  on  them  as  the  valley 
narrowed  to  its  southern  end.  Igraine  had  never  wandered 
so  far  from  Garlotte's  cottage,  and  the  ground  was  strange 
to  her,  nor  did  she  know  how  the  country  promised.  Riding 
at  full  gallop,  she  saw  with  a  shudder  of  fear  a  barrier  of 
rock  running  serrate  across  her  path  and  closing  the  narrow 
valley  like  a  wall.  Gorlois  saw  it  too,  and  sent  up  a  shout 


THE  WAR  IN~  WALES  321 

that  made  Igraine's  hate  flame  up  into  a  kind  of  rapture. 
To  have  turned  right  or  left  up  the  steep  grass  slope  towards 
the  woods,  would  have  given  back  to  Gorlois  the  little  start 
she  had  of  him.  With  a  numb  chill  at  her  heart  she 
abandoned  all  hope  of  Pelleas,  and  turned  to  face  the  inevi- 
table, and  Gorlois  her  lord. 

The  man  came  up  like  a  wind  through  the  grass,  and 
drew  rein  roughly  some  ten  paces  away.  He  laughed  as  he 
stared  at  Igraine,an  uncouth,  angering  laugh  like  the  yapping 
of  a  dog.  He  looked  big  and  burly  in  the  saddle,  and  the 
muscles  stood  out  in  his  neck  as  he  tilted  his  square  jaw  and 
stared  down  at  his  wife.  Igraine  had  not  looked  upon  his 
face  since  he  had  been  smitten  in  battle.  Its  ugliness 
seemed  to  match  his  soul. 

Gorlois  lifted  up  his  voice  and  mocked  her. 

"  Ha,  my  brave,  you  are  trapped,  are  you  ?  Mother  of 
God,  but  you  make  a  good  figure  of  a  man.  These  many 
months  I  have  missed  you,  wife  in  arms.  And  you  have 
served  in  the  pay  of  my  lord  the  King.  Good  service  and 
good  pay,  I  warrant,  and  plenty  of  plunder.  I  will  have 
that  harness  of  yours  hung  over  my  bed." 

Igraine  suffered  him  not  so  much  as  a  word.  She  was 
furious,  and  in  no  mood  to  be  scoffed  down  and  cowed  by 
mere  insolent  strength.  She  looked  into  Gorlois's  libidinous 
face  from  behind  the  vizor  of  her  helmet,  and  thought  her 
thoughts.  Gorlois  ran  on  in  his  mocking  fashion.  His 
bronzed  face  gleamed  with  sweat,  and  a  rough  lascivious 
smile  showed  up  his  strong  white  teeth  to  her. 

"  Ha,  now,  madame !  deliver,  and  let  us  have  sight  of 
you.  The  King  loves  your  lips,  eh  !  They  are  red,  and 
your  arms  are  soft.  I  warrant  he  found  your  bosom  a  good 
pillow.  Uther  was  ever  such  a  solemn  soul,  such  a  monk, 
such  a  father.  It  is  good  for  the  heart  to  hear  of  him 
knotted  up  in  a  woman's  hair." 

Igraine  shook  with  the  immensity  of  her  hate. 

"  You  were  ever  a  foul-tongued  hound,"  she  said. 

"  Am  I  your  echo  ?  " 


322  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

u 1  wish  you  were  dead." 

'"So  said  the  King." 

"  So  you  spied  on  us  ?  " 

Gorlois  set  up  a  scoffing  laugh,  showing  his  red  throat 
like  a  hungry  bird. 

"  And  saw  my  wife  the  King's  courtezan  ;  ha,  what  a  jest ! 
Come,  madame,  let  us  be  going;  your  honest  home  waits 
for  you.  I  will  chatter  to  you  of  moralities  by  the  way." 

He  had  hardly  delivered  himself  of  the  saying,  when 
Igraine's  hand  clutched  at  the  handle  of  her  sword.  She 
jerked  the  spurs  in  with  her  heels.  Her  grey  horse  started 
forward  like  a  bolt ;  blundered  into  Gorlois  ;  caught  him 
cross-counter,  and  rolled  his  white  stallion  down  into  the 
grass.  Igraine  had  lashed  out  at  the  shock.  Her  sword 
caught  Gorlois's  arm,  and  cut  through  sleeve  and  arm-guard 
to  the  bone.  As  he  rolled  with  his  horse  in  the  grass,  she 
wheeled  round,  and  clapping  in  the  spurs,  rode  hard  uphill 
for  the  forest. 

Gorlois,  hot  as  a  furnace,  scrambled  tc  his  feet,  and 
dragged  his  horse  up  by  the  bridle.  Half  off  the  saddle,  with 
empty  stirrups  dangling,  he  went  at  a  canter  for  the  yawn 
of  the  wood.  His  slashed  arm  burnt  as  though  it  had  been 
touched  with  a  branding-iron  ;  blood  dripped  down  upon  his 
horse's  white  shoulder.  He  was  soon  steady  in  the  saddle 
and  galloping  full  pelt  after  Igraine,  the  ground  slipping 
under  his  horse's  hoofs  like  water,  the  long  grass  flying  like 
spray. 

Igraine's  horse  lost  ground  up  the  slope ;  he  had  less 
heart  than  Gorlois's  beast,  and  was  weaker  in  the  haunches. 
By  the  time  they  reached  the  trees,  Igraine  had  twenty 
yards  to  her  credit  and  no  more.  She  saw  her  chance  gone, 
and  heard  Gorlois  close  in  her  wake,  caught  sideways  a 
glimpse  of  plunging  hoofs  and  angry  harness.  Drawing 
aside  suddenly  with  all  her  strength,  she  let  Gorlois  sweep 
up  on  her  flank  and  pass  her  by  some  yards.  Before  he 
could  turn,  she  rode  into  him  as  fast  as  she  could  gather  j 
her  sword  clattered  on  his  helmet,  —  sparks  flew. 


THE   WAR  IN  WALES  323 

Gorlois  wrenched  round  and  put  his  shield  above  his 
head. 

"  By  God,  —  hold  off,  —  would  you  have  me  fight  a 
woman  ?  " 

A  swinging  cut  rattled  on  his  shoulder-plate  for  answer. 

Gorlois  rapped  out  an  oath  and  drew  his  sword. 

"  Hold  off!  " 

His  roar  seemed  to  shake  the  trees.  To  Igraine  it  was 
the  mere  meaningless  threatening  of  a  sea.  She  struck 
home  again  and  again  while  Gorlois  foined  with  her;  more 
than  once  she  reached  his  flesh. 

Gorlois's  grim  patience  gave  way  at  last ;  a  clean  cut 
drew  spurting  blood  from  his  shoulder. 

"  God  curse  you  !  —  take  it  then." 

He  swung  his  sword  with  a  great  downward  sweep,  a 
streak  of  steel  that  struck  crackling  fire  from  the  burnished 
casque.  Igraine's  arm  dropped  like  a  broken  bough  ;  for 
half  a  breath  she  sat  straight  in  the  saddle,  swayed,  sank 
slantwise,  and  slid  down  into  the  long  grass.  Her  horse 
stood  still  at  her  side,  looking  at  her  with  mild  blue 
eyes. 

Gorlois  gave  a  queer  short  laugh.  He  looked  frightened 
for  the  moment ;  the  flush  of  anger  had  passed  and  left  him 
pale.  He  dismounted,  bent  over  Igraine,  unstrapped  her 
helmet.  She  was  only  dazed  by  the  blow  ;  blood  trickled 
red  amid  her  hair,  and  her  blue  eyes  stared  him  in  the 
face. 

She  lifted  up  a  hand  with  a  bitter  cry  of  defiance. 

"Strike,  strike,  and  make  an  end." 

Gorlois's  grimness  came  back,  and  his  eyes  hardened. 

"  That  were  too  good  for  you." 

"  Devil !  " 

"  By  God,  I  shall  tame  you  —  never  fear !  " 


BOOK   IV 

TINTAGEL 


THE  castle  of  Tintagel  stood  out  above  the  sea  on  a  headland 
that  rose  bluffly  above  the  white  foam  that  girdled  it.  The 
waves  swinging  in  from  the  west  seemed  to  lift  ever  a  hoarse 
chant  about  the  place  with  their  perpetual  grumbling  against 
the  cliff.  Colour  shifted  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  Blue, 
green,  and  grey  it  would  sweep  into  the  west,  netted  gold 
with  the  sun,  banded  with  foam,  or  spread  with  purple 
beneath  the  drifting  shadow  of  a  cloud.  Hills  rose  in  the 
east.  Between  these  crags  and  the  sea  rolled  a  wilderness 
cloven  by  green  valleys  and  a  casual  stream.  Tintagel 
seemed  to  crown  a  region  grand  and  calamitous  as  the  sea 
itself. 

The  sun  was  going  down  over  the  waters,  watched  by  a 
flaxen-haired  lad  squatting  on  the  wall  of  an  outstanding 
turret.  His  legs  dangled  over  the  battlements,  and  his  heels 
smote  against  the  weathered  stone.  There  was  a  premature 
look  of  age  upon  his  face,  a  certain  wistful  wisdom  as  though 
he  had  completed  his  novitiate  early  in  the  world.  His 
blue  eyes,  large  and  sensitive  as  a  dog's,  stared  away  over  the 
golden  edge  of  the  sea. 

This  was  Jehan  the  bastard,  a  pathetic  shred  of  humanity, 
thin  and  motherless,  blessed  with  nothing  save  a  dreamy 
nature  that  stood  him  in  poor  stead  in  such  a  hold  as 
Tintagel.  Like  any  mongrel  owned  of  none,  he  was  given 
over  largely  to  the  cuffs  and  curses  of  the  community.  Men 
called  him  a  fool,  and  treated  him  accordingly.  He  was 
scullion,  horse-boy,  pot-bearer,  by  turns.  The  men  of  the 
garrison  could  make  nothing  of  a  lad  who  wept  at  a  word, 

327 


328  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

never  showed  fight,  but  crept  away  to  mope  and  snivel  in  a 
corner.  He  had  earned  epithets  enough,  but  little  else  ;  and 
the  rude  Philistines  of  the  place,  beings  of  beer  and  bone, 
knew  little  of  those  finer  instincts  with  which  Nature  chooses 
on  occasion  to  endow  a  soul. 

At  times  Jehan  would  creep  away  up  this  turret  stair  to 
live  and  breathe  for  a  season  with  no  friend  save  the  ever- 
complaining  sea.  He  would  perch  himself  on  the  battle- 
ments with  the  salt  wind  blowing  through  his  hair,  the  rocks 
beneath  him  boiling  foam  from  the  waves  that  swept  in  from 
the  west.  The  perch  was  perilous  enough,  but  the  lad  had 
no  fear  of  the  windy  height,  or  of  the  waves  breaking  against 
the  pediment  of  the  clifF.  To  him  man  alone  was  terrible. 
There  appeared  to  be  a  confident  understanding  between 
Nature  and  himself,  a  sense  of  good  fellowship  with  his 
surroundings,  such  as  the  chamois  may  feel  for  its  mountain 
pinnacle,  and  the  bird  for  the  tree  that  bears  its  nest. 

Jehan's  thin  face  was  turned  often  towards  the  central 
tower  of  the  castle,  a  square  campanile  that  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  main  court,  forming  a  species  of  citadel  or  keep. 
High  up  in  the  wall  there  was  a  window,  a  streak  of  gloom 
that  showed  nothing  of  the  room  within.  Over  Jehan  this 
window  possessed  a  peculiar  influence.  It  was  the  casement- 
royal  of  romance.  Day  by  day,  ever  since  Gorlois  had  come 
south  again,  the  lad  had  watched  for  the  white  oval  of  a  face 
that  would  look  out  momentarily  from  the  shadow.  Some- 
times he  saw  a  woman's  hand,  a  golden  head  glimmering  in 
the  sun.  Jehan  had  seen  Gorlois's  wife  brought  a  second 
time  into  Tintagel.  Her  staring  grief  had  taken  strange 
hold  upon  his  heart.  Ever  since,  with  the  kindled  chivalry 
of  a  boy,  he  had  done  great  deeds  in  dreams,  handled  a  sword, 
taken  strong  men  by  the  throat.  The  imagined  event  had 
fired  the  soul  in  him,  and  made  him  the  disciple  of  these  sad 
and  wistful  eyes. 

A  bell  smote  in  the  court  below.  Its  iron  clapper  dinned 
the  fancjes  out  of  Jehan's  head,  calling  him  to  the  menial 
realities  of  life.  It  was  the  supper  hour,  and  the  men  of  the 


TINTAGEL  329 

guard  would  be  strenuously  inclined  over  the  steaming  pot, 
the  wine-jar,  and  the  twisting  spit.  Jehan  left  his  turret 
with  the  pathetic  cynicism  of  an  autumn  twilight.  Little 
drudge  that  he  was,  he  yet  had  the  inward  independence  to 
despise  the  folk  who  fed  like  swine,  and  terrorised  him  with 
pure  blatant  barbarism.  He  could  listen  to  their  blasphemy, 
their  ribald  songs,  and  breathe  the  moral  garlic  of  their 
tongues  with  a  disrelish  that  never  wavered.  He  had  none 
of  the  innate  impudence  of  youth.  Had  he  been  of  coarser 
fibre  the  men  would  soon  have  made  a  lewd  and  insolent  imp 
of  him,  but  he  was  spared  such  a  fate  by  a  certain  spiritual 
instinct  that  recoiled  from  the  vapouring  brutality  of  it  all. 

There  seemed  more  ribaldry  abroad  in  the  guard-room 
that  night  than  was  customary  even  in  so  pious  a  place. 
The  company,  much  like  a  pack  of  hounds,  hunted  jest  after 
jest  from  cover,  and  gave  tongue  royally  with  a  zest  that 
would  have  been  admirable  in  any  other  cause.  Lamps 
swirled  ill-smelling  smoke  about  the  room.  There  was  a 
lavish  scattering  of  armour  along  the  benches,  and  the  floor 
was  dirtier  than  the  floor  of  any  tavern. 

Jehan's  ears  tingled  as  he  went  among  the  men,  climbing 
over  sprawling  legs,  edging  between  stools  and  benches. 
The  air  reeked  of  mead,  and  the  miasma  of  loose  talk  rising 
from  twenty  throats.  A  woman's  name  was  tossed  from 
tongue  to  tongue,  bandied  about  with  a  familiar  insolence 
that  made  him  blush  for  her  like  a  brother.  His  heart  burnt 
with  the  bestial  impudence,  the  sweat,  the  foul  breath  of  it 
all.  Yet  before  these  red-bearded  faces,  these  vociferous 
mouths,  he  was  a  coward,  hating  himself  for  his  fear,  hating 
the  men  for  the  sheer  tyranny  of  the  flesh  that  awed  him. 

To  hear  in  this  den  such  things  spoken  of  a  woman,  and 
of  such  a  woman  !  That  she  was  true  his  quick  instinct 
could  aver  in  the  very  maw  of  the  world.  There  was  the 
silver  calm  of  the  full  moon  in  her  face,  and  she  had  for  him 
the  steadfastness,  the  incomprehensible  eloquence,  of  the 
stars.  Were  these  rr^en  blind,  that  the  staring  grief,  the 
divine  scorn,  that  had  smitten  him  from  the  first  with  a 


330  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

vague  awe,  were  invisible  to  them  ?  Their  coarse  cynicism 
was  brutally  incomprehensible  to  Jehan.  Having  a  soul,  he 
could  not  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  sot  or  the  adulterer,  nor 
had  he  learnt  to  mistrust  the  intelligence  of  his  own  heart. 

As  he  laboured  from  man  to' man  with  his  jug  of  mead 
to  keep  the  brown  horns  brimming,  he  thought  of  the 
golden  head  that  had  glimmered  in  the  criss-cross  light  of 
the  yews  in  the  castle  garden.  The  woman  had  been  faith- 
less, to  put  popular  report  mildly  j  and  Gorlois  was  a  hard 
man  ;  he  would  see  her  dead  before  he  pitied  her.  Jehan 
was  so  far  gone  in  dreams  for  the  moment  that  he  tripped 
over  an  outstretched  pair  of  legs,  and  shattered  his  stone  jar 
on  the  floor. 

A  "  God  curse  you,"  and  lavish  largesse  in  the  way  of 
kicks,  recompensed  the  dreamer  for  this  contempt  of  office. 
Jehan,  bruised,  spattered  with  mead,  crawled  away  under  the 
benches,  and  took  refuge  in  a  dark  corner,  where  he  could 
recover  his  wits  behind  the  piled  pikes  of  the  gentlemen  who 
cursed  him.  Such  incidents  were  the  trivialities  of  a  menial 
existence.  Jehan  wiped  his  face  on  his  sleeve,  choked  down 
his  sobs  with  a  dirty  fist,  and  devoutly  hoped  to  be  forgotten. 

Meanwhile  a  broad  figure  had  stood  framed  in  the  door- 
way, and  drawn  the  attention  of  the  company  from  the  boy 
squirming  like  an  eel  along  the  floor.  Jehan,  peeping  round 
the  pile  of  pikes,  saw  a  woman  in  a  scarlet  gown  standing 
under  a  lamp  that  flared  on  the  threshold.  The  woman  was 
of  unusual  girth  and  height.  Her  black  hair  streamed  about 
her  sensual  red  face  like  clouds  about  a  winter  sun.  Her 
neck  was  like  the  neck  of  a  bull,  and  her  bare  arms  would 
have  shamed  the  arms  of  a  smith.  Jehan  watched  her  as  he 
would  have  watched  a  natural  enemy,  a  thing  whose  destiny 
was  to  be  brutish  and  to  destroy. 

Men  called  her  Malmain,  the  evil-handed.  She  was  a 
cub. of  the  forest,  strong  as  a  bear,  cruel  as  any  wolf.  Years 
ago  she  had  been  caught  as  a  child  in  the  woods,  tracked 
down  to  a  rocky  hole,  a  whelp  that  clawed  and  bit,  and  knew 
nothing  of  the  speech  of  men.  She  had  been  brought  to 


TINT  A  GEL  331 

Tintagel  and  bred  in  the  place,  the  pet  of  the  soldiery,  who 
had  taught  her  the  use  of  arms  and  the  smack  of  wine.  In 
ten  years  she  had  grown  to  her  full  strength,  a  creature  wise 
in  all  the  uncomely  things  of  life,  coarse,  bold,  and  violent. 
Last  of  all,  Gorlois,  with  a  genius  for  vengeance,  had  given 
her  charge  of  Igraine,  his  wife. 

The  woman  was  good  to  look  upon  in  a  large,  florid 
fashion.  She  came  in  and  sat  herself  down  on  a  stool  at  the 
end  of  one  lone  wooden  table,  and  stared  round  with  her  hard 

O 

brown  eyes.  One  man  passed  her  a  cup,  another  the  wine  jar. 
She  tossed  the  former  aside  with  an  air  of  scorn,  and  buried 
her  face  in  the  mouth  of  the  jar.  When  she  had  taken  her 
pull  she  spat  on  the  floor  with  a  certain  quaint  deliberation, 
and  wiped  her  mouth  on  the  back  of  her  bare  arm. 

A  wicked  innuendo  came  from  a  man  grinning  at  her 
elbow.  Malmain  laughed  and  pulled  at  her  lip.  Her  pres- 
ence conferred  no  leavening  influence  upon  the  place,  and 
her  sex  made  no  claim  for  decorum.  She  was  more  than 
capable  of  caring  for  herself  in  the  company  of  these  gentle- 
men of  the  guard,  for  she  could  take  her  laugh  and  liquor 
with  the  best  of  them,  and  claim  a  solid  respect  for  a  fist 
that  could  smite  like  a  mace. 

She  flustered  up  a  sigh  that  ended  in  a  hiccough.  "  I  am 
tired,"  she  said,  stretching  her  arms  and  showing  the  breadth 
and  depth  of  her  great  chest. 

"  Go  to  bed,  fragile  one,  and  shake  the  castle." 

"  Little  chance  of  that ;  who  says  I  snore  ?  " 

u  Gildas  the  trumpeter." 

"  Curse  him  ;  how  should  he  know  ?  " 

The  man  questioned  grinned,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  meddle  no  further,"  he  said.  "  How  is  the  lord's 
wife  ?  " 

Malmain  licked  her  lips  and  reached  for  the  pot.  She 
tilted  it  with  such  gusto  that  the  liquor  overflowed  and  ran 
down  her  chin.  After  more  cat's-pawing  and  a  snivel  she 
waxed  communicative  with  a  matter-of-fact  coarseness,  and 
like  an  old  hound  soon  had  the  rest  tonguing  in  her  track. 


332  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Gorlois  will  break  her  yet,"  quoth  one. 

"  Or  bury  her." 

"A  fit  fellow,  too,  —  and  a  gentleman;  why  can't  she 
knuckle  to  him  and  play  the  lady  ?  " 

"  The  woman's  worth  three  of  that  chit  with  the  white 
face;  a  fine  brat  ought  to  come  of  it." 

Malmain  showed  her  strong  white  teeth. 

"Somehow,"  she  said,  "there's  no  more  cross-grained 
creature  than  a  woman  with  a  grievance,  especially  when 
she  has  been  baulked  of  her  man.  Let  a  woman  speak  for 
a  woman,  though  I  break  the  spirit  of  her  with  a  whip. 
There's  less  fighting  now ;  by  Jesus,  you  should  see  her 
bones  staring  through  her  skin." 

Jehan  had  listened  to  their  talk  behind  the  pile  of  pikes 
in  the  corner.  The  blatant  cynicism  of  it  all  chilled  him 
like  a  March  wind.  He  thought  of  the  sad,  strong  face,  the 
patient  scorn,  the  youth,  the  prophetic  May  of  her  of  whom 
they  spoke.  There  was  a  certain  terrible  realism  here  that 
tore  the  tender  bosom  of  his  dreams. 

The  room  stifled  him  with  its  smoke  and  stew.  Crawl- 
ing round  by  the  wall  on  all  fours,  he  gained  the  door  and 
crept  out  unnoticed  into  the  dark.  In  the  sky  above  the 
stars  were  shining.  The  world  seemed  big  with  peace,  and 
the  face  of  the  heavens  shone  mild  and  clear  as  the  face  of 
God. 

Jehan  stood  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall  and  looked 
at  the  window  high  up  in  the  tower.  It  was  black  and 
lustreless,  and  only  the  dust  of  the  stars  shone  up  in  the 
vast  canopy  of  gloom.  Jehan  shook  his  fist  at  the  dark  pile 
of  stone.  Then  he  went  up  to  the  roof  of  the  little  turret 
and  watched  the  sea  foaming  dimly  on  the  rocks  below. 


II 

"  I  WOULD  have  you  know,  madame,  that  every  woman  is 
pleasing  to  man,  —  saving  his  own  wife." 


TINT  A  GEL  333 

"Who  in  turn  is  pleasing  to  his  friend,  —  even  if  he 
chance  to  be  a  king." 

The  woman  on  the  couch  tossed  her  slipper  from  her 
small  foot,  and  struck  a  series  of  snapping  chords  from  the 
guitar  that  she  held  in  her  bosom.  There  was  a  certain 
rich  insolence  in  her  look,  —  a  sensuous  wickedness  that  was 
wholly  poetic.  The  man  bent  forward  from  his  stool,  lifted 
the  slipper,  and  kissed  the  foot  whence  it  had  fallen.  He 
won  a  smile  from  the  face  bowered  up  in  cushions,  a  smile 
like  sunlight  on  a  brazen  mirror,  brilliant,  clear,  metallic. 
There  was  a  fine  flush  on  her  face,  and  the  star  on  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  as  her  breathing  seemed  to  quicken  and 
deepen  for  the  moment.  Her  fingers  plucked  waywardly  at 
the  strings  as  she  looked  out  from  the  window  towards  the  sea. 

"  I  love  life,"  she  said. 

"Surely." 

"  The  pomp,  the  pride,  the  glory  of  being  great.  I  have 
a  future  for  you." 

A  kind  of  spiritual  echo  burnt  in  the  man's  eyes. 

"  And  my  wife  ?  " 

"  You  are  still  something  of  a  madman." 

"So  you  say." 

«I  — indeed!" 

He  bent  forward  with  a  sudden  eruption  of  passion  and 
kissed  her  foot  again,  till  she  drew  it  away  under  the  folds 
of  her  dress. 

"  Ah,  you  are  still  a  little  mad,"  she  said,  turning  and 
smiling  at  him  with  her  quick  eyes  ;  "  bide  so,  my  dear  lord  ; 
I  can  suffer  it." 

"And  yet — " 

"  I  hate  her  !      I  hate  her  !      I  hate  her  !  " 

"  Bah  !  —  she  cannot  harm  you." 

"  I  hate  her  for  being  a  martyr,  for  being  strong,  for 
thinking  herself  a  saint.  Pah! — how  I  could  scratch  her 
proud,  big  face.  She  humiliates  me  because  of  her  misery, 
because  she  is  contented  to  suffer.  It  is  impossible  to 
trample  such  a  woman  underfoot." 


334  UTHER  AArD  IGRAINE 

The  man  gave  a  queer  laugh. 

"You  are  still  envious." 

"  I  envious, —  I!  " 

"Because  she  is  never  humbled,  never  asks  mercy." 

"  Curse  her,  let  her  die !  Come  and  fan  me,  I  am 
sleepy." 

On  the  southern  side  of  the  central  tower,  between  it  and 
the  State  quarters  of  the  castle,  lay  the  garden  of  Tintagel. 
It  was  a  lustrous  nook,  barriered  by  grey  walls,  sheltered 
from  the  sea  wind,  and  open  to  the  full  stare  of  the  sun. 
Sombre  cypresses  lifted  their  spires  above  flower-beds 
mosaicked  red,  gold,  and  blue.  The  paths  were  tiled  with 
coloured  stones,  and  bordered  with  helichryse.  In  the  cen- 
tre of  all  a  pool  glimmered  from  a  square  of  bright  green 
grass. 

The  window  in  the  tower  that  had  so  seized  upon  the 
lad  Jehan's  heart  looked  out  upon  this  square  of  colour 
that  shone  beneath  the  extreme  blue  of  the  summer  sky. 
The  casement  was  an  open  mihrab  whence  tragedy  could 
look  out  upon  the  world.  The  glory  of  the  sea,  the  sky, 
the  cliffs,  contrasted  with  the  twilight  tint  of  the  prison 
room. 

Gorlois's  wife  sat  in  the  window-seat  and  watched  the 
waves  and  the  horizon  with  vacant  eyes.  She  was  clad  in 
a  tattered  gown  of  grey.  Her  hair  had  been  shorn  close, 
leaving  but  a  golden  aureole  over  neck,  ears,  and  forehead. 
One  hand  was  wrapped  in  a  blood-stained  cloth,  and  there 
were  marks  left  by  a  whip  upon  her  face.  Her  gown 
reached  hardly  to  her  ankles,  showing  bare  feet  and  wheals, 
where  the  scourge  had  been.  She  was  very  frail,  very  worn, 
very  spiritual. 

Her  face  was  the  face  of  one  who  looks  into  the  solemn 
sadness  of  the  past.  Her  lips  were  pressed  together  as  in 
pain,  and  a  certain  divine  despair  dwelt  in  her  deep  eyes 
like  light  reflected  from  some  twilight  pool.  The  mus- 
cles stood  limned  in  her  neck  like  cords,  and  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  were  hooked  in  the  neck-band  of  her  gown. 


TINT  A  GEL  335 

Many  days  had  passed  since  the  life  in  Garlotte's  valley. 
They  had  taught  Igraine  the  deeds  that  might  result  from 
the  stirring  of  the  passions  of  such  a  man  as  Gorlois.  It  was 
a  strenuous  age,  and  men's  souls  were  cast  in  large  mould 
either  to  the  image  of  good  or  evil.  Even  Boethius  could 
not  escape  the  malice  of  a  great  king.  Attila  had  scourged 
the  nations  with  a  scourge  of  steel.  Old  things  were  pass- 
ing amid  disruption  and  despair.  Gorlois  had  caught  the 
Titanic,  violent  spirit  of  the  age.  His  personality  had  won 
a  lurid  emphasis  from  tragedies  that  shook  the  world. 

Igraine  had  suffered  many  things,  shame,,  torture,  famine, 
since  she  had  fallen  again  into  his  power.  The  man  had 
shown  no  pity,  only  a  fine  fecundity  in  his  devices  for  the 
breaking  of  her  spirit.  He  could  be  barbarous  as  any  Hun, 
and  though  she  had  guessed  his  fibre,  it  was  not  till  these 
latter  days  that  she  learnt  to  know  him  more  fully  to  her 
own  distress.  It  was  not  the  physical  alone  that  oppressed 
her  ;  Gorlois  had  imagination,  ingenuity  ;  he  made  her  moral 
sufferings  keener  than  the  lash,  and  subordinated  the  flesh 
to  the  spirit.  Igraine  withstood  him  through  it  all.  She 
felt  in  her  heart  that  she  was  going  to  die. 

As  she  sat  at  the  window,  the  sound  of  laughter  came 
up  suddenly  from  the  garden,  glowing  in  the  sunlight. 
Mere  mockery  might  have  been  its  inspiration,  so  light,  so 
merry,  and  so  mellow  was  it.  Igraine  heard  it,  and  leant 
forward  over  the  sill  to  gain  a  broader  view  of  the  tiled 
walks  and  flower-beds  below.  She  saw  a  woman  dart  out 
of  a  doorway  in  the  wall  opposite,  and  run  in  very  dainty 
fashion,  holding  her  skirts  gathered  in  one  hand,  the  other 
flourishing  a  posy  of  red  roses.  As  she  ran  she  laughed  with 
an  unrestrained  extravagance  that  had  in  it  something 
sensual  and  alluring. 

Igraine  watched  her  with  a  badge  of  colour  in  her  cheeks. 
The  woman  in  the  garden  was  clad  in  a  tunic  of  sky-blue 
silk  that  ran  down  her  body  like  flowing  water.  The  tunic 
was  cut  low  at  the  neck  so  as  to  show  her  white  breast, 
whereon  shone  a  little  cross  of  gold.  Her  hair  shimmered 


336  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

loose  about  her  in  the  sunlight  like  an  amber  veil.  Her 
lips  were  tinctured  with  vermilion ;  her  face  seemed  white 
as  apple  blossom,  and  shadows  had  been  painted  under  her 
lids.  She  moved  with  a  graceful,  sinuous  air,  her  blue  gown 
rippling  about  her,  her  small  feet,  slippered  with  silver 
embroidery,  flashing  glibly  over  the  stones. 

A  man  was  following  her  among  the  cypresses,  and 
Igraine  saw  that  it  was  Gorlois,  sunburnt  and  strong,  with 
ruddy  arms,  and  the  strenuous  zest  of  manhood.  There 
was  something  unpleasing  in  the  muscular  movement  of  his 
mood.  He  was  Graecian  and  antique,  a  Mars  striding  with 
the  red  face  of  no  godly  love;  sheer  bovine  vigour  in  the 
curves  of  his  strong  throat. 

Igraine  saw  the  woman  run  round  the  garden,  laughing 
as  she  went,  her  hair  blowing  behind  her  in  the  sunlight. 
She  turned  up  the  central  path  that  led  to  the  pool,  with  its 
little  lawn  closed  by  a  balustrade  of  carved  stone.  Morgan 
la  Blanche  stood  by  the  water  and  watched  Gorlois  abjuring 
the  paths  and  striding  towards  her,  knee-deep  in  blue  and 
purple.'  He  leapt  the  balustrade,  and  stood  looking  at  the 
woman  laughing  at  him  through  her  hair. 

The  red  roses  were  thrust  into  Gorlois's  face  as  he  came 
to  closer  quarters.  There  was  a  short  scuffle  before  the  girl 
abandoned  herself  to  him  with  a  kind  of  sensuous  languor. 
Igraine  saw  her  body  wrapped  up  in  the  man's  brown  arms. 

It  was  a  minute  or  more  before  the  two  became  aware 
of  the  face  at  the  window  overhead.  Igraine  found  them 
staring  up  at  her,  Gorlois's  swarthy  face  close  to  the 
woman's  light  aureole  of  hair  as  she  stood  buttressed  against 
his  broad  chest.  By  instinct  Igraine  drew  back  into  the 
room,  till  pride  conquered  this  shrinking  impulse.  She 
leant  forward  upon  her  hands  and  stared  down  at  the  two, 
allegorical  as  Truth  shaming  Falsehood. 

The  woman,  meanwhile,  had  drawn  aside  from  Gorlois's 
arms.  She  was  pulling  the  roses  to  pieces,  and  scattering 
the  red  petals  on  the  water,  and  there  was  a  peevish  sneer 
upon  her  lips. 


TINTAGEL  337 

"  Ever  this  white  death,"  she  said. 

Igraine  saw  the  impatient  gesturing  of  Morgan's  hands, 
the  tap  of  the  embroidered  slipper  on  the  grass.  The 
woman's  words  seemed  to  trouble  Gorlois  ;  he  stood  aside, 
and  did  not  look  at  her,  even  when  she  edged  away,  watch- 
ing him  over  her  shoulder.  It  was  a  conflict  of  dishonour- 
able sensations.  Morgan  jerked  a  quick  look  from  her 
large  blue  eyes  at  the  window  overhead.  There  was 
nothing  but  rampant  egotism  upon  her  face,  and  it  was 
evident  that  she  trusted  on  Gorlois  to  follow  her.  He 
was  staring  swarthily  into  the  water  as  though  he  watched 
the  fish  moving  in  the  shallow  basin.  He  hardly  heeded 
Morgan  as  she  picked  up  her  pride  and  left  him.  Other 
thoughts  seemed  to  have  strong  hold  upon  his  mind,  and 
he  stood  at  gaze  till  the  blue  gown  disappeared  under  the 
arch  of  the  door  it  had  so  lately  quitted. 

Gorlois  leant  against  the  balustrade  and  pulled  his 
moustachios.  His  eyes  had  no  very  spiritual  look,  and  his 
red  lower  lip  drooped  like  an  unfurled  scroll.  More  than 
once  he  cast  a  quick,  restless  glance  at  the  window  in  the 
tower.  Irresolution  seemed  to  run  largely  through  his 
mood,  and  it  was  some  while  before  he  gathered  his  manhood 
and  passed  up  an  avenue  of  cypresses  towards  the  tower. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  he  stood  pulling  his  lip,  and 
staring  at  the  stones,  oppressed  by  a  certain  dubiousness  of 
thought. 

Climbing  the  stairs,  he  found  the  woman  Malmain  in  an 
alcove,  asleep  on  a  settle.  Her  head  had  fallen  back  against 
the  wall,  her  mouth  was  agape,  and  she  was  snoring  with 
her  black  hair  tumbled  over  her  face.  Gorlois  woke  her 
with  his  foot. 

The  woman  started  up  with  the  growl  of  a  watch-dog, 
stared,  and  stood  silent.  Gorlois,  curt  as  a  man  burdened 
with  a  purpose,  spoke  few  words  to  her.  She  opened  a 
door  by  a  certain,  mechanical  catch,  went  in,  and  closed  it 
after  her. 

Half  an  hour  passed. 


338  UTHER  AND  IGRATNE 

The  door  rolled  again  on  its  hinges.  Malmain  came  out 
and  stood  before  Gorlois  on  the  threshold.  She  was  breath- 
ing hard,  and  sweat  stood  on  her  face.  Gorlois  gave  her 
a  look  and  a  word,  passed  in,  and  slammed  the  door  after 
him.  "  Malmain  sat  down  on  the  settle,  wiped  her  face,  and 
listened. 

For  a  minute  or  more  she  heard  nothing.  An  indefinite 
sound  broke  the  silence,  like  the  moving  of  branches  in  a 
wind  at  night.  There  was  the  sound  of  hard  breathing, 
and  the  creaking  of  wood.  Something  clattered  to  the 
floor. 

"  God  judge  between  you  and  me." 

The  voice  was  half-stifled  as  with  the  choking  bitterness 
of  great  shame.  Malmain  grinned  in  her  corner,  and  leant 
her  head  against  the  door  to  listen  the  better. 

"  What  of  God  !  "  said  the  man's  voice  with  a  certain 
hot  scorn  ;  "  what  is  God  ?  " 

11  Take  your  knife  and  end  it." 

"  Madame  wife,  there  is  good  in  you  yet." 

There  was  silence  again,  like  a  lull  betwixt  ecstasies  of 
rain.  Presently  the  woman's  voice  was  heard,  low,  sullen, 
shamed. 

"  Man  —  man,  let  me  die  !  " 

"  Own  me  master." 

u  You  —  you  !      How  can  I  lie  in  my  throat !  " 

"  Is  truth  so  new  a  thing  ?  " 

"  You  have  taught  me  to  love  death." 

Malmain  heard  Gorlois's  hand  upon  the  door.  She 
opened  it  forthwith ;  he  came  out  upon  the  threshold. 
His  hands  were  trembling,  and  his  face  seemed  dull,  his 
eyes  passionless. 

"  I  shall  tame  you  yet,"  he  said. 

"  You  can  kill  me  !  "  came  the  retort  from  the  room. 


TINTAGEL  339 


III 

THERE  was  in  Tintagel  a  certain  man  named  Mark,  a 
legionary  of  the  guard.  The  castle  had  known  him  two 
months  or  less,  when  he  had  come  south  into  Cornwall 
with  Gorlois's  troop  from  Caerleon.  He  was  an  olive- 
skinned  mercenary,  black  of  beard  and  black  of  eye.  In 
the  guard-room  he  had  become  vastly  popular;  he  could 
harp,  tell  a  tale,  hurl  the  bar,  with  any  man  in  the  garrison. 
He  was  strong  and  agile  as  a  panther,  and  as  ready  with 
his  tongue  as  he  was  with  his  sword.  His  comrades  thought 
him  a  merry  rapscallion  enough,  a  good  fellow  whose  life 
was  rounded  comfortably  by  the  needs  of  the  flesh.  He 
could  drink  and  jest,  eat,  sleep,  and  be  happy. 

Women  have  quick  instinct  for  a  man  of  mettle,  one 
whose  capabilities  for  pleasing  are  somewhat  of  a  perilous 
kind.  Malmain  of  the  Forest  had  taken  note  of  Mark's 
black  eyes,  his  olive  skin,  the  immense  self-control  that 
seemed  to  bridle  him.  He  had  a  fine  leg,  and  a  most 
gentlemanly  hand.  Moreover,  his  inimitable  impudence, 
his  supple  wit,  took  her  fancy,  seeing  that  he  was  a  man  who 
professed  a  superb  scorn  for  petticoats,  and  posed  as  being 
wise  beyond  his  generation.  There  was  a  certain  insolent 
independence  about  him  that  seemed  to  make  of  him  a 
philosopher,  a  person  pleased  with  the  puerilities  of  others. 

It  came  about  that  Malmain  —  clumsy,  lumbering  crea- 
ture—  took  to  heaving  stupendous  sighs  under  the  very 
nose  of  Mark  of  the  guard.  She  had  not  been  bred  to 
reservations.  If  she  liked  a  man,  she  told  him  the  truth, 
with  a  certain  admirable  frankness.  If  she  hated  him,  he 
could  always  rely  upon  her  fist.  Any  ethical  principle  was 
like  a  book  to  her  —  very  curious,  no  doubt,  but  absolutely 
beyond  her  understanding. 

Now  the  man  Mark  was  a  person  of  intelligence  and 
discretion.  He  needed  the  woman's  friendship  for  diplo- 
matic reasons  snared  up  in  his  own  long  skull,  and  since 


340  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

such  partisanship  could  be  won  by  a  look  and  a  word,  he 
soon  had  Malmain  very  much  at  his  service.  Shrewd  and 
cunning  wench  that  she  was  in  the  course  of  nature,  she 
was  somewhat  easily  fooled  by  the  man's  suave  impudence. 
She  haunted  Mark  like  a  shadow  when  off  her  duty,  —  a 
very  substantial  shadow,  be  it  noted,  —  and  made  it  extrava- 
gantly plain  that  she  was  blessed  after  all  with  some  of  the 
sentiments  of  a  woman. 

One  evening,  being  in  the  mood,  she  caught  him  in  a 
bye-passage  as  he  came  off  guard.  He  was  in  armour,  and 
carried  a  spear  slanted  over  his  shoulder.  His  burnished 
casque  seemed  to  give  a  fine  setting  to  his  strong,  sallow  face. 

Malmain,  generous  creature,  filled  the  passage  like  a 
gate.  Her  face  matched  her  scarlet  smock,  and  she  was 
grinning  like  some  grotesque  head  from  the  antique.  Mark 
came  to  a  halt,  and  leaning  on  his  spear,  looked  at  her  in 
the  most  bland  manner  possible.  He  did  not  trust  women 
overmuch,  and  he  mistrusted  Malmain  in  particular.  More- 
over, she  smacked  of  the  wine-cask. 

The  woman  edged  close,  and  shook  a  fist  in  his  face 
with  a  certain  bluff  enthusiasm. 

"  A  bargain  !   a  bargain  !  " 

The  passage  was  open  to  the  west,  and  a  glare  of  sun- 
light shimmered  into  Mark's  eyes.  He  could  only  see  the 
woman  as  a  great  blurr,  a  mass  of  trailing  hair,  a  loose, 
exuberant  smock  haloed  with  gold. 

"  Ha  !   my  cherub,  you  seem  in  fettle." 

The  fist  still  flickered  in  his  face. 

"  A  bargain  !   a  bargain  !  " 

"  Mother  of  mercy !  you  are  .in  such  a  devil  of  a 
hurry." 

"  A  kiss  for  what's  in  my  hand." 

"  A  buffet  —  big  one  —  a  rush-ring,  or  a  garter  ?  " 

"  That  tongue  of  yours  ;  look  and  see,  look  and  see  !  " 

Malmain  spread  her  fingers.  The  man  saw  a  ring  of 
gold  carved  in  the  form  of  a  dragon,  with  rubies  for  eyes, 
and  a  collar  of  emeralds  about  its  throat.  Lying  in  the 


TINTAGEL  341 

woman's  moist,  fat  palm,  it  glimmered  in  the  slant  light  of 
the  sun.  Mark's  eyes  glittered  as  he  looked  at  it. 

"  I  had  the  thing  from  the  woman  above,"  quoth  Mai- 
main,  jerking  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder. 

«  A  bribe  ?  " 

"  Who'd  bribe  me  ?     Not  a  woman  !  " 

"  Honest  soul." 

"  c  That  ring  looks  well  on  your  finger,'  said  I.  c  I  shall 
have  it.'  l  Never  ! '  said  she.  c  That's  too  big  a  word,' 
said  I.  So  I  forced  it  off,  for  all  her  temper,  and  broke 
her  finger  in  the  doing  of  it." 

A  transient  shadow  seemed  to  pass  across  the  man's  face, 
the  wraith  of  a  ghost-wrath  insensible  to  the  world. 

"  Close  the  bargain,  cherub." 

"  A  buss  for  it." 

"  Twenty  kisses  in  a  week,  and  my  mug  of  supper  beer." 
He  had  the  ring. 

Malmain  did  not  stand  alone  in  her  devotion  to  Mark  of 
the  guard.  The  man  had  come  by  another  friend  in  Tin- 
tagel,  a  friend  without  influence,  it  is  true,  but  one,  at  least, 
who  possessed  abundant  individuality,  and  the  charm  of  an 
ingenuous  nature.  Mark  was  no  mere  bravo  when  he  turned 
partisan  to  the  lad  Jehan,  and  took  him  within  the  pale  of 
his  mothering  wit.  He  had  a  profound  knowledge  of  men, 
and  a  philosophic  insight  into  character  that  had  not  been 
gained  solely  on  the  march  or  in  the  ale-house.  By  profes- 
sion he  appeared  a  devil-may-care  gentleman  of  the  sword, 
a  man  of  bone  and  muscle,  the  possessor  of  a  vigorous 
stomach.  These  attributes  were  mere  stage  properties,  so 
to  speak,  necessary  to  him  for  the  occasion.  For  the  rest, 
he  "knew  what  he  knew. 

Mark  had  seen  more  than  cowardice  in  the  sensitive  face 
of  the  lad.  He  had  discovered  the  soul  beneath  the  surface, 
the  warmer,  bolder  personality  behind  the  deceit  of  the  flesh. 
Jehan  appealed  to  him  as  a  friendless  thing,  a  vial  of  glass 
jostled  in  the  stream  of  life  by  rough  potsherds  and  sound- 
ing bowls.  Mark  took  the  lad  in  hand  and  made  a  disciple  of 


342  UTHER  AND  1GRAINE 

him  in  less  than  a  week.  He  humoured  the  lad,  encouraged 
him,  treated  him  like  a  comrade,  drew  the  soul  out  of  his 
limp,  starved  body.  Jehan  had  never  fallen  upon  such  a 
friend  before.  He  was  bewitched  by  the  man's  personality. 
This  Mark  with  the  strong  face  and  the  falcon's  eye  seemed 
to  see  deep  into  the  finer  sentiments  of  life,  to  think  as  he 
thought,  to  conceive  as  he  conceived.  Jehan,  unconscious 
little  idealist  that  he  was,  bubbled  over  into  innumerable 
confidences  and  confessions  of  feeling.  This  dark-eyed 
man,  who  never  laughed  at  him,  whose  voice  was  never 
blatant  and  threatening,  seemed  to  exert  a  magnetic  influ- 
ence upon  his  spirit.  Jehan  throned  him  a  species  of  demi- 
god, and  idolised  him  as  he  had  idolised  few  living  things  on 
earth  before. 

There  was  more  method  in  Mark's  friendship  than  his 
comrades  of  the  guard  ever  dreamt  of  in  their  thick  noddles. 
They  had  many  a  laugh  at  Malmain  and  many  a  jest  at  her 
expense,  but  their  wit  never  worked  beyond  vulgar  banality. 
As  for  Jehan,  his  existence  certainly  seemed  to  better  itself 
so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  though  what  the  man  Mark 
could  see  worth  patronising  in  the  lad,  they  were  at  a  loss  to 
discover.  Jehan  grew  less  servile,  less  diffident,  more  open 
of  countenance.  He  hided  a  cook-boy  of  his  own  age  in  a 
casual  scuffle.  Mark  had  used  a  strong  arm  and  a  stronger 
wit  for  him  on  occasion,  and  the  little  bastard  was  no  longer 
cuffed  at  the  random  pleasure  of  every  gentleman  of  Gorlois's 
guard. 

Jehan  often  spoke  to  Mark  of  the  lady  of  the  tower  whose 
hair  was  like  the  red-gold  cloak  of  autumn.  The  man 
seemed  ready  to  hear  of  her  beauty  and  her  distress,  and  all 
the  multitudinous  tales  concerning  her  given  from  the  guard- 
room. He  kindled  to  the  romantic  possibilities  of  the  affair, 
and  was  as  full  of  sentiment  as  Jehan  himself  could  wish. 
Saying  little  at  first,  he  watched  the  lad  with  keen,  discerning 
eyes,  as  though  tracing  out  the  trend,  depth,  and  sincerity  of 
his  sympathies ;  nor  was  he  long  ignorant  of  the  strain  of 
chivalry  that  was  sounding  in  the  lad's  heart.  The  more 


T1NTAGEL  343 

generous  sentiments  leapt  out  in  a  look,  a  word,  a  colouring 
of  the  cheek.  Given  inspiration,  it  was  possible  to  make  a 
fanatic  of  the  boy,  a  hero  in  the  higher  rendering  of  the 
term. 

In  due  course  the  man  grew  more  communicative,  less 
of  a  listener.  Jehan  heard  of  Avangel,  of  the  island  manor 
in  Andredswold,  of  Pelleas,  and  of  the  days  in  Winchester. 
The  whole  tragedy  was  spread  before  him  like  a  legend,  some 
mighty  passion  throe  of  the  past.  He  listened  open-mouthed, 
with  blue  eyes  that  searched  the  man's  face.  Mark  had 
taken  to  himself  of  a  sudden  an  air  of  mystery  and  peril. 
Jehan  knew  by  intuition  that  these  matters  were  to  be  kept 
secret  as  the  grave.  Great  pride  rose  in  him  at  being  held 
worthy  of  such  trust.  He  felt  even  aggrieved  when  Mark 
spoke  to  him  of  discretion,  with  a  finger  on  his  lip.  Such  a 
secret  was  like  a  hoard  of  gold  to  the  lad.  It  pleased  him 
with  a  sense  of  responsibility  and  of  faith,  and  Jehan  loved 
honour,  for  all  his  novitiate  amid  the  morals  of  the  guard- 
room. 

He  had  drunk  deep  of  old  songs,  and  of  the  heroics  of 
the  harp.  Such  things  were  like  moonlight  to  him,  touch- 
ing his  soul  with  a  lustre  of  idyllic  truth.  He  began  to 
dream  dreams,  and  to  speculate  extravagantly  as  to  the  things 
that  were  yet  hid  from  his  knowledge.  It  was  borne  in  upon 
his  mind  that  Mark  was  this  Pelleas  in  disguise,  come  to 
save  Igraine  from  Gorlois  and  the  towers  of  Tintagel.  The 
notion  took  his  heart  by  storm,  and  his  sympathies  hovered 
over  the  woman  like  so  many  scarlet-winged  moths.  He 
desired  greatly  to  speak  to  Mark  of  that  which  was  in  his 
heart,  but  feared  to  seem  mischievous  and  lacking  in  dis- 
cretion. 

Some  three  days  after  Malmain  had  given  Mark  the  Lady 
Igraine's  ring,  Gorlois  rode  hunting  with  Morgan  la  Blanche 
and  a  train  of  knights  and  damsels.  Half  the  castle  turned 
out  to  see  them  sally  with  their  ten  couple  of  hounds  in 
leash,  and  a  goodly  company  of  prickers  and  beaters.  Gareth 
the  minstrel  rode  with  the  company  on  a  white  horse  and 


344  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

sang  to  the  harp  a  hunting  song,  and  then  a  chant  d' amour. 
Morgan's  laugh  was  as  clear  as  a  bell  pealing  over  water  as 
she  rode  at  Gorlois's  side  in  the  sunlight,  her  silks  and 
samites  and  gold-green  tissues  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

Jehan  ran  over  the  bridge  to  see  them  go  down  into  the 
valley.  The  dogs  tugged  at  the  thongs,  the  boar  spears 
glittered,  the  'dresses  threaded  the  maze  of  green  as  roses 
thread  a  briar.  Jehan  climbed  a  rock,  exulting  in  the  life, 
the  spirit,  the  colour  of  it  all.  Gareth's  strong  voice  came 
up  from  the  valley  as  he  sang  of  love  and  of  the  fairness  of 
women.  Jehan  envied  him  his  harp  and  the  honour  that  it 
won  him.  It  was  his  own  hope  to  sing  of  the  beauty  of  the 
world,  the  green  ecstasy  of  spring,  of  autumn  forests  flaming 
to  the  sky,  the  eternal  sorrow  of  the  tortured  sea.  He  came 
by  this  same  desire  in  later  years  when  he  sang  to  Arthur 
and  Guinevere  and  Launcelot  of  the  Lake  in  the  gardens  of 
Caerleon. 

A  hand  plucked  him  by  the  heel  as  he  lay  curled  on  the 
rock  watching  the  cavalcade  flickering  away  into  the  green. 
Looking  down,  he  saw  the  strong  face  of  Mark  of  the  guard. 
There  was  a  smile  on  the  man's  lips,  and  to  Jehan  there 
seemed  something  prophetic  in  his  eyes.  He  climbed  down 
and  stood  looking  into  the  other's  face,  the  mute,  trusting 
look  of  a  dog. 

Mark  took  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"  The  sea  is  blue  and  gold,  and  the  c  Priest's  Pool '  like 
a  violet  well." 

"  There  is  time  for  a  swim." 
"  We  will  watch  for  a  sail  from  the  cliffs." 
"  And  you  will  tell  me  more  of  Pelleas  and  Igraine." 
Mark  was  in  a  visionary  mood ;   he  used  his  spear  as  a 
staff  and  talked  little.     A  sleepy  sea  bubbled  a  line  of  foam 
along  the  shore.      Bleak  slopes  rolled  greenly  against    an 
azure  sky,  and  landwards  crag  and  woodland  stood  steeped 
in  a  mist  of  sunlight.     Jehan,  sedulous  and  reverent,  watched 
the  passionless  calm  of  thought  upon  the  man's  face.      His 
eyes    were    turned    constantly    towards    the    sea  with  the 


TINTAGEL  345 

hope  of  one  waiting  for  a  white  sail  from  the  under- 
world. 

When  they  had  gone  a  mile  or  more  along  the  cliffs, 
they  came  to  a  path  leading  to  a  bay  whose  lunette  of  sand 
shone  red  gold  above  the  foam.  It  was  a  place  of  crags  and 
headlands,  poised  sea  billows,  purple  waters  pressing  from 
the  west.  Jehan  sat  on  a  stone  and  waited.  Mark  took  his 
cloak  and  bound  it  to  the  staff  of  his  spear.  Jehan  watched 
him  as  he  stood  at  his  full  height  like  a  tall  pine  on  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  and  lifted  his  spear  at  arm's  length  above  his 
head.  Seawards,  dim  and  distant  like  a  pearl  over  the  purple 
sea,  Jehan  saw  a  sail  strike  out  of  the  vague  west.  Mark 
still  held  the  cloak  upon  his  spear.  Jehan  understood  some- 
thing of  all  this.  His  mind,  packed  with  plots  and  subtle- 
ties, shone  with  the  silvery  aureole  of  romance. 

The  sail  grew  against  the  sky,  and  a  ship  loomed  gradual 
out  of  the  west.  Mark  shook  the  cloak  from  his  spear,  and 
climbed  down  the  path  that  curled  from  the  cliff  with  Jehan 
at  his  heels.  Below,  the  waves  swirled  in  amid  the  rocks 
and  ran  ripple  on  ripple  up  the  yellow  sand.  The  whole 
place  seemed  filled  with  the  hoarse  underchant  of  the  sea. 

In  a  narrow  part  of  the  track  Mark  stopped  suddenly, 
and  stood  leaning  on  his  spear.  Jehan  nearly  blundered 
into  him,  but  saved  himself  by  the  help  of  a  tuft  of  grass. 
The  man's  face  was  on  a  level  with  the  lad's,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  look  into  Jehan's  soul. 

He  pointed  to  the  distant  headland,  where  the  towers  of 
Tintagel  rose  against  the  sky. 

"  Death  waits  yonder,"  he  said. 

u  For  whom  ?  " 

"  Igraine,  —  Gorlois's  wife." 

Jehan  looked  at  him  with  all  his  soul.  The  man  was 
no  longer  the  quaint,  vapouring  soldier,  but  a  being  of 
different  mould,  keen,  solemn,  even  magnificent.  Jehan 
felt  himself  on  the  verge  of  romance  ;  the  man's  face  seemed 
to  stare  down  fear. 

"  And  Pelleas  !  "  he  said. 


346  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Pelleas  ?  " 

"  Art  thou  not  Pelleas  ?  " 

Mark  smiled  in  his  eyes. 

"  Your  dreams  fly  too  fast,"  he  said. 

"  And  yet  —  " 

"  You  would  see  some  one  play  the  hero.  Who  knows 
but  that  a  bastard  may  save  a  kingdom." 

Mark  moved  on  down  the  path,  stopping  now  and  again 
to  watch  the  ship  at  sea  ;  Jehan  followed  at  his  heels.  They 
reached  the  beach,  and  saw  the  waves  rolling  in  on  them 
from  the  west,  with  the  white  belly  of  a  sail  showing  over 
the  water.  Mark  made  no  further  tarrying  in  the  matter. 
Standing  on  a  stretch  of  sand  levelled  smooth  by  the  water, 
he  traced  a  cross  thereon  with  the  point  of  his  spear. 

"  Swear  by  the  cross." 

Jehan's  face  was  turned  to  the  man's,  eager  and  enquir- 
ing. 

"  To  whom  shall  I  swear  troth  ?  "  he  said. 

"  To  Gorlois's  wife." 

"  Ah  ! " 

"  And  to  the  King." 

"  The  King  !  " 

Jehan  crossed  himself  with  great  good-will. 

"  By  the  blood  of  the  Lord  Jesu,  I  swear  troth." 

They  went  down  close  to  the  waste  of  waters,  and  let 
the  spume  sweep  almost  to  .their  feet.  A  vast  blue  bank  of 
clouds  mountained  the  far  west;  the  sea  seemed  deep  in 
colour  as  an  amethyst.  Gulls  were  winging  and  wailing 
about  the  cliffs.  Tintagel  stood  out  in  its  strength  against 
the  sky,  and  they  could  see  the  waves  white  upon  its  rocks. 

Mark  took  the  ring  Malmain  had  given  him  from  a 
pouch  at  his  belt,  and  held  the  gold  circle  before  the  lad's 
eyes. 

"  From  the  hand  of  Gorlois's  wife,"  he  said. 

Jehan  nodded. 

"  This  ring  was  given  her  by  that  Pelleas." 

"Yes." 


TINTAGEL  347 

"  Who  is  Uther  Pendragon,  the  King." 

Jehan's  blue  eyes  seemed  to  dilate  till  they  looked  strangely 
large  in  his  thin  white  face. 

"  The  King !  "  he  said,  in  a  kind  of  whisper. 

Mark  made  all  plain  to  him  in  a  few  words. 

44  The  Lady  Igraine  loved  Pelleas,  as  well  she  might,  not 
knowing  him  to  be  Ambrosius's  brother.  It  was  this  same 
great  love  that  brought  her  in  peril  of  Gorlois's  sword.  It 
is  this  same  love  that  draws  her  down  to  her  death  —  there 
in  Tintagel.  Uther  Pendragon  is  at  Caerleon  ;  her  hope 
is  with  him.  You,  Jehan,  shall  carry  word  of  this  to  the  King." 

The  lad's  heart  was  beating  like  the  heart  of  a  giant. 
The  world  seemed  to  expand  about  him,  to  grow  luminous 
with  the  glory  of  great  deeds  ;  he  had  the  braying  of  a 
hundred  trumpets  in  his  ears.  He  heard  swords  ring,  saw 
banners  blow,  and  towers  topple  like  smitten  trees. 

"  I  am  the  King's  servant,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  sworn  troth ;  so  be  it.  You  shall  go  to  the 
King,  to  Uther  Pendragon,  at  Caerleon.  Tell  him  you  had 
this  ring  from  a  soldier,  bribed  to  deliver  it  by  the  Lady 
Igraine.  Tell  him  the  evil  that  is  done  to  her  in  the  castle 
of  Tintagel.  Tell  him  all  —  withhold  nothing." 

Jehan  flushed  to  the  temples ;  his  lips  moved,  but  no 
words  came  from  them.  He  stood  stiff  and  erect,  looking 
out  to  sea,  following  with  his  eyes  the  sweep  of  Mark's 
spear. 

"  I  am  the  King's  servant,"  he  said. 

The  ship  had  drawn  in  towards  the  shore.  She  was 
lying  to  with  her  sails  put  aback,  her  black  hull  rising  and 
falling  morosely  against  the  tumultuous  purple  of  the  clouds. 
Nearer  still  a  small  galley  came  heading  for  the  shore  with 
a  gush  of  foam  at  her  prow  as  the  men  in  her  bent  to  the 
oars.  The  galley  came  swinging  in  on  the  broad  backs  of 
the  sluggish  waves,  and  shooting  the  surf,  grounded  on  the 
sands,  the  men  in  her  leaping  out  and  dragging  her  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  sea. 

There  was  a  more  mellow  light  on  Mark's   face  as  he 


348  UTHER  AND  JGRAINE 

pointed  Jehan  to  the  boat,  and  the  ship  swaying  on  the 
sun-gilded  waves. 

"  They  will  carry  you  to  Caerleon,"  he  said. 

"  And  you,  sire  ?  " 

"  There  is  need  of  me  at  Tintagel." 

"  I  have  sworn  troth." 

Jehan  stood  and  looked  into  the  west  at  the  clouds  gold- 
ribbed,  domed,  snow,  and  purple.  His  face  might  have  been 
lit  by  the  warm  glow  of  a  lamp,  so  clear  and  radiant  was  it. 
He  had  thrust  the  King's  ring  into  his  bosom. 

"  The  Lord  Jesu  speed  me,"  he  said  ;  "  through  the  Lady 
Igraine's  face  I  am  no  longer  a  coward.  God  speed  me  to 
save  her !  " 

Mark  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"  You  have  a  soul  in  you,"  he  said. 

The  man  stood  on  the  strand  under  the  black  cliffs  and 
watched  the  boat  climb  the  waves.  He  saw  the  galley  hoisted 
up,  the  sails  flapping  in  the  wind  as  the  ship  sheered  out 
and  ran  for  the  open  sea.  Her  sails  gleamed  white  against 
the  tumultuous  west,  and  the  ridged  waters  hid  her  hull. 
Overhead,  the  gulls  screamed  and  circled.  Mark,  shoulder- 
ing his  spear,  turned  back  and  climbed  the  cliff,  with  his 
face  towards  the  towers  of  Tintagel. 


IV 

A  GALLEY  came  up  the  Usk  towards  dawn,  towards  dawn 
when  the  woods  were  hung  with  mist,  and  a  vast  quiet 
brooded  over  the  world.  The  river  made  a  moist  murmur 
through  reeds  and  sedge,  seeming  to  chant  of  golden  meads 
as  it  ran  to  wed  the  sea.  All  the  eastern  casements  of  Caer- 
leon glimmered  gold  as  the  dawn  struck  over  wood  and  hill ; 
the  city's  walls  smiled  out  of  the  night ;  her  vanes  and  towers 
were  noosed  as  with  fire.  The  galley  drew  to  the  great 
quay,  and  poled  to  the  steps  as  the  city  awoke. 

A  lad,  with  his  russet  mantle  turned  up  over  his  girdle, 


TINT AG  EL  349 

passed  up  from  the  galley  and  the  quay  towards  the  southern 
gate  of  the  city  of  Caerleon.  His  step  was  sanguine,  his  face 
deep  with  dreams.  He  seemed  to  personate  "  Youth  "  enter- 
ing that  city  of  woeful  magic  that  poets  and  painters  name 
"  Romance." 

Within  the  walls  the  stir  of  life  had  been  sounded  in 
by  the  clarions  of  the  dawn.  Seafaring  men  went  down  to 
the  river  and  their  ships.  At  the  gate  arms  rang,  tumbrils 
rumbled.  Slim  girls  passed  out  into  the  orchards  and  the 
fields,  under  the  trees  all  heavily  grained,  russet  and  green 
and  gold.  Women  drew  water  at  the  wells.  The  merchant 
folk  in  the  market  square  spread  their  stalls  for  the  day  — 
fruit,  flesh,  fish,  cloth,  and  the  fabrics  of  the  East,  armour 
and  brazen  jars,  vases  of  strange  device. 

The  city  pleased  the  lad  as  he  passed  through  its  stirring 
streets,  and  took  the  vigour  of  it,  the  human  symbolism, 
into  his  soul.  His  idealism  shed  a  glamour  over  the  place; 
how  red  and  white  were  its  maidens ;  how  fair  its  stately 
houses ;  how  splendid  the  clashing  armour  of  its  guards. 
In  the  market  square  he  asked  a  wizened  apple-seller  con- 
cerning the  palace,  and  was  pointed  to  the  wooded  hill  where 
white  walls  rose  above  the  green.  Jehan  solaced  himself 
with  a  couple  of  ruddy  apples  from  the  stall.  It  was  early 
yet  for  the  palace,  so  the  seller  said,  and  Jehan  sat  down  by 
a  fountain  where  doves  flew,  and  thought  of  his  errand  as 
he  watched  the  folk  go  by. 

The  sun  was  high  before  he  came  to  the  great  gate  lead- 
ing to  the  gardens  of  the  King.  It  chanced  to  be  a  great 
day  at  Caerleon,  a  day  of  public  appeal,  when  Uther  played 
patriarch  to  his  people,  and  sat  to  hear  the  prayers  of  the 
wronged  or  the  oppressed.  Hence  it  followed  that  Jehan, 
pressing  in  at  the  gate,  found  himself  one  among  many,  one 
of  a  herd,  a  boy  among  his  elders.  In  the  antechamber  of 
the  palace  he  was  edged  into  a  corner,  elbowed  and  kept 
there  by  stouter  clients  who,  as  a  mere  matter  of  course, 
shouldered  a  boy  to  the  wall.  Argument  availed  nothing. 
Men  were  used  to  plausible  tales  for  winning  precedence, 


350  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

and  each  considered  his  especial  matter  the  most  pressing  in 
the  eyes  of  justice.  The  crowd  overawed  him.  The  door- 
keepers thrust  him  back  with  their  staves  when  he  waxed 
importunate  and  attempted  to  parley.  Often  he  bethought 
him  of  the  ring,  but,  being  quick  to  suspect  theft  in  such  a 
mob,  he  kept  the  talisman  tight  in  his  tunic,  and  trusted  to 
time  and  the  powers  of  patience. 

What  with  giving  way  to  women  whose  sex  commended 
them,  and  men  whose  strength  and  egotism  seemed  vested 
in  their  elbows,  Jehan  was  fended  far  from  the  door  all  day. 
A  squabbling,  querulous  crowd  filled  the  place ;  women 
with  grievances,  merchants  who  had  been  plundered  on  the 
road  ;  peasants,  priests,  soldiers  ;  beggars  and  adventurers  ; 
a  Jew  banker  whom  seme  Christian  had  taken  by  the  beard  ; 
a  farmer  whose  wife  had  taken  a  fancy  to  a  gentleman's 
bed.  It  was  a  stew  of  envy,  discontent,  and  misfortune. 
Jehan,  whose  none  too  sumptuous  clothing  did  him  little 
service,  was  shouldered  casually  into  the  background.  "  Take 
second  place  to  a  brat  of  a  boy !  God  forbid  such  an 
indignity ! "  The  vexed  folk  believed  vigorously  in  the 
premiership  of  years. 

It  was  well  towards  evening  when  Jehan,  who  had  gone 
fasting  save  for  a  rye-cake,  found  himself  the  last  to  claim 
audience  of  the  King.  A  fat  pensioner,  yawning  phenome- 
nally and  dreaming  of  supper,  eyed  him  with  little  favour 
from  the  top  step  of  the  stair.  The  day  had  been  a 
crowded  one,  and  the  savoury  scent  of  roast  flesh  assailed  the 
senses  of  the  gentleman  of  the  "  white  wand."  Jehan  braved 
the  occasion  with  heart  thumping,  produced  the  ring,  and 
held  it  as  a  charm  under  the  doorkeeper's  nose. 

There  was  an  abrupt  revulsion  in  the  methods  of  this 
domestic  demigod.  Doors  opened  as  by  a  magic  word  ; 
servants  went  to  and  fro  ;  bells  sounded.  A  grey-bearded 
Pharisee  appeared,  scanned  the  lad  over  with  an  aristocratic 
contempt,  beckoned  him  to  follow.  The  man  with  the 
white  wand  refrained  for  a  moment  from  yawning  over  the 
paltriness  of  the  world  at  large. 


TINTAGEL  .    351 

Jehan,  taken  by  galleries  and  curtained  doors,  and  dis- 
enchanted somewhat  with  the  palatial  regime,  found  himself 
in  a  chapel  casemented  towards  the  west.  Lamps  burnt 
upon  the  altar,  and  a  priest  knelt  upon  the  steps  as  in 
prayer.  Sacramental  vessels  glimmered  at  the  feet  of  the 
frescoed  saints.  A  fragrant  scent  of  musk  and  lavender  lay 
heavy  on  the  air. 

Jehan  saw  a  man  standing  by  a  window,  a  man  girded 
with  a  sword,  and  garbed  in  no  light  and  joyous  fashion.  The 
man's  face  possessed  a  kind  of  sorrowful  grandeur,  a  solemn 
kindliness  that  struck  home  into  the  lad's  heart.  The  eyes 
that  met  his  were  eyes  such  as  women  and  children  trust. 
Jehan  guessed  speedily  enough  that  this  was  the  King. 

There  was  a  certain  intuition  big  in  him,  prophesying  of 
the  pain  that  burdened  his  message.  He  faltered  for  the 
moment,  knelt  down,  looked  into  the  man's  eyes,  and  took 
courage.  There  was  a  questioning  calm  in  them  that 
quieted  him  like  the  dew  of  prayer.  He  took  the  ring  and 
gave  it  into  the  King's  hand. 

"  From  the  Lady  Igraine,"  was  his  plea. 

Now  Jehan,  though  he  looked  no  higher  than  Uther's 
knees,  saw  him  rock  and  sway  like  some  great  poplar  in  a 
storm.  A  strange  lull  seemed  to  fall  sudden  upon  the 
world.  The  lad  listened  to  the  beating  of  his  own  heart, 
and  wondered.  He  had  soul  enough  to  imagine  the  large 
utterance  of  those  few  words  of  his. 

A  deep  voice  startled  him. 

"  Your  message." 

He  knelt  there  and  told  his  tale,  simply,  and  without 
clamour. 

"  It  is  the  truth,  sire,"  he  said  at  the  end  thereof,  "  so  may 
I  drink  again  of  the  Lord's  blood,  and  eat  his  bread  at  the 
holy  table." 

"  My  God,  what  truth  !  " 

The  man's  voice  swept  the  chapel  like  a  wind,  deep, 
sonorous,  and  terrible.  The  large  face,  the  broad  forehead, 
the  deep-set  eyes  were  turned  to  the  casement  and  the 


352  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

west.  The  face  was  like  the  face  of  one  who  looks  into 
hell.  Jehan,  on  his  knees,  looked  up  and  shivered.  He 
had  told  the  truth,  and  the  storm  awed  him  like  a  miracle. 
It  seemed  almost  impious  to  be  witness  of  a  wrath  that  was 
as  the  righteous  passion  of  a  god. 

"  Gorlois  tortures  her?  " 

"  To  her  death,  sire." 

"  The  whole  —  spare  nothing." 

"  She  is  starved  and  scourged,  and  harlots  mock  her." 

"  God  ! " 

"  They  drag  her  soul  in  the  mire." 

It  was  sunset,  and  all  the  sky  burnt  gold  and  crimson  in 
the  west.  Every  lozenge  of  glass  in  the  casement  shone 
red  as  with  fire.  Beyond  Caerleon  a  mysterious  gloom  of 
trees  rolled  blackly  against  the  chaos  of  the  decline.  The 
whole  world  seemed  glamoured  and  steeped  in  a  ghostly 
quiet.  Usk,  a  band  of  shadowy  gold,  ran  with  vague 
glimmerings  to  the  sea. 

The  King  spread  his  arms  to  the  west,  and  under  his 
black  brows  his  eyes  smouldered. 

"  Am  I  Uther  of  Britain  —  and  a  King  ?  " 

And  again  in  a  deep  half-heard  whisper  — 

"  Igraine  !  Igraine  !  thou  art  true  unto  death." 

From  the  terrace  below  came  sudden  the  sound  of 
harping.  It  was  Rivalin,  the  Court  minstrel,  singing  as  the 
sun  went  down  — 

"  Quenched  be  all  the  bitter  pain, 
When  the  roses  bloom  again 
Eyes  shall  smile  through  glimmering  tears." 

The  face  of  the  King  was  like  the  face  of  a  man  who 
sees  a  vision.  All  the  glow  of  the  hills  seemed  in  his  eyes. 
His  hands  shook  as  he  stretched  them  to  the  west,  the  west 
that  was  a  chasm  of  torrential  gold. 

"  Igraine,"  he  said,  as  in  a  dream. 

And  again  — 

"  Tintagel  will  I  hurl  into  the  sea." 


TINTAGEL  353 

Jehan  knelt  and  looked  mutely  at  the  King.  The  gloom 
of  the  roof  seemed  to  cover  him  like  a  canopy,  and  the 
frescoes  glimmered  through  the  blue  shadows.  Uther  wore 
a  small  crucifix  about  his  neck.  Jehan,  full  of  a  sense  of 
tragedy,  saw  him  tear  the  crucifix  from  its  chain,  and  cast 
it  at  his  feet.  The  priest  at  the  altar,  haloed  by  the 
glowing  of  his  lamps,  looked  at  the  King,  white  and  won- 
dering. It  was  an  exultant  voice  that  made  the  chalice 
quiver. 

"  Hitherto  I  have  served  a  God,"  it  said ;  "  now  I  will 
serve  my  own  soul !  " 


THE  woman's  face,  haloed  by  the  gloom  of  the  casement, 
still  looked  out  from  Tintagel  over  the  solitary  grandeur 
of  sea  and  clifF.  Igraine  saw  ships  pass  seldom  athwart  the 
west,  but  they  brought  no  hope  for  her,  for  she  thought 
herself  alone,  and  served  of  none.  How  should  Uther  the 
King  know  that  she  was  mewed  in  Tintagel  at  Gorlois's 
pleasure  !  Had  he  not  commended  her  to  the  calm  orchards 
and  cloisters  of  a  nunnery  ?  Even  the  ring  he  had  given 
her  had  been  stolen  by  sheer  force.  Days  came  and  went, 
dawn  flooded  the  eastern  woods  with  gold,  and  evening 
tossed  her  torches  in  the  west.  To  Igraine  they  were  as 
alike  as  the  gulls  that  wheeled  and  winged  white  over  the 
blue  waters. 

There  are  few  men  of  such  despicable  fibre  that  they 
are  wholly  ruled  by  the  egotism  of  the  flesh.  Your 
complete  villain  is  no  frequent  prodigy,  being  more  the 
denizen  of  the  regions  of  romance  than  of  the  common, 
trafficking,  trivial  world.  There  are  bad  men  enough,  but 
few  Neros.  Give  a  human  being  passions,  pride,  and 
intense  egotism,  and  his  potential  energy  for  evil  is  un- 
bounded. Virtue  is  often  a  mere  matter  of  habit  or  cir- 
cumstance. Joseph  might  have  ended  otherwise  if  Potiphar's 


354  UTHER  AND  TGRATNE 

wife  had  had  more  wit ;  and  as  for  Judas,  he  was  unfortu- 
nate in  being  made  banker  to  a  God. 

Gorlois  of  Cornwall  was  beholden  to  his  own  strenuous, 
north-winded  nature  for  any  trouble  he  might  incur  in  his 
madness  against  Igraine.  However  much  he  braved  it  out 
to  his  own  conscience,  he  knew  well  enough  whether  he 
was  content  or  no.  He  was  a  strong  man,  and  selfish, 
resentful,  and  very  human.  He  was  no  Oriental  monster, 
no  mere  Herod.  What  magnanimity  he  possessed  towards 
his  wife  had  been  frozen  into  a  wolfish  scorn  by  the  things 
that  had  passed  in  Garlotte's  valley  in  Wales.  Moreover, 
he  had  a  bad  woman  at  his  elbow.  Like  many  a  vexed 
and  restless  man,  he  had  turned  to  ambition,  and  the  darker 
features  of  his  character  were  being  developed  thereby.  A 
king  had  wronged  him ;  it  was  easy  for  a  great  noble  to  lay 
plots  against  a  king.  War  and  the  clamour  of  war  became 
like  the  prophetic  sound  of  a  storm  from  afar  in  his  ears. 

Little  comment  had  followed  upon  the  disappearance  of 
the  lad  Jehan  on  the  day  when  Gorlois  and  his  knights  had 
ridden  hunting.  No  one  cared  for  the  lad  ;  no  one  missed 
him  materially.  Casual  gossip  arose  thereon  in  the  guard- 
room. The  lad  had  risked  the  halter  or  the  branding-iron, 
and  sundry  threats  were  launched  after  him  at  random. 
Mark  of  the  guard  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed. 

u  There's  pluck  in  the  lad,"  he  said,  "  for  all  your  bully- 
ing. By  my  faith,  I  guess  he  grew  tired  of  kicks  and  leav- 
ings, and  of  being  cursed  by  so  many  sons  of  the  pot. 
Bastard  or  no  bastard,  the  lad's  no  fool." 

The  guard-room  scoffed  complacently  at  the  notion. 
Jehan  do  anything  in  the  world  but  snivel !  Not  he  ! 
These  gentlemen  judged  of  a  man's  worth  by  the  animal 
propensities  of  the  creature.  They  weighed  a  man  as  they 
would  weigh  an  ox  —  for  flesh,  and  the  breed  in  him. 
Mark,  making  a  show  of  warming  to  his  wine,  enlightened 
his  men  further  as  to  Jehan's  disappearance. 

"  The  lad  and  I  went  to  bathe,"  he  said ;  "  there  was  a 
ship  in  the  offing,  and  sailors  had  come  ashore  to  get  water 


TINTAGEL  355 

by  St.  Isidore's  spring.  They  wanted  a  lad  for  cabin 
service,  so  I  took  two  gold  pieces,  and  told  them  to  kidnap 
Jehan." 

A  laugh  hailed  the  confession,  a  laugh  that  changed  to  a 
cheer  when  Mark  won  accomplices  by  casting  largesse  for 
a  scramble  on  the  guard-room  floor. 

" 1  wish  them  luck  of  him,"  said  the  captain,  pocketing 
silver  ;  "  devil  of  a  spark  could  I  ever  knock  out  of  the  lad." 

"  May  be  you  hit  too  hard." 

"  May  be  not.  I'll  lay  my  fist  against  a  rope's-end  for 
education." 

"  Mark  takes  his  wine  like  a  gentleman,"  quoth  one. 

"  May  he  get  drunk  on  pay  day." 

"  And  sell  another  Joseph  into  Egypt." 

The  woman  Malmain  came  in  to  join  them,  corpulent 
and  thirsty.  Superabundant  and  colossal,  she  impressed  a 
strenuous  and  didactic  mood  upon  the  company,  grumbling 
like  a  volcano,  emitting  a  smoke  of  mighty  unfeminine 
gossip.  Her  black  eyes  wandered  continually  towards  Mark 
of  the  guard.  She  watched  him  with  a  certain  air  of  pos- 
session amid  all  her  sweat  and  jabber,  laughing  when  he 
laughed,  making  herself  a  coarse  echo  to  his  will. 

Some  one  spoke  of  Gorlois's  wife.  So  personal  a  subject 
moved  Malmain  to  mystery  on  the  instant.  She  tapped  her 
forehead  with  her  finger ;  shook  her  head  with  a  significance 
that  was  sufficient  for  the  occasion. 

"  Mad  !  "   said  the  captain  of  the  guard. 

Malmain  sucked  her  lips  and  yawned  with  her  great 
chasm  of  a  mouth. 

"  She  was  always  that,"  she  said  with  a  hiccough. 

"  Paradise,  eh  ?  " 

"  And  golden  harps  !  " 

"  And,  damme,  no  beer !  " 

There  was  a  certain  flavour  in  the  last  remark  that  made 
the  men  roar. 

"I  wonder  where  they'll  bury  her,"  said  the  captain. 

u  Throw  her  into  the  sea." 


356  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  Gorlois's  little  wench  won't  weep  her  eyes  out." 

Malmain  smote  a  stupendous  hip,  and  tumbled  to  the 
notion.  The  settle  shook  and  creaked  under  her  as  though 
in  protest. 

"  We'll  all  get  married,"  she  said ;  "  Mark,  my  man, 
don't  blush." 

Babylon  was  compassed  round  !  The  same  evening  a 
soldier  on  the  walls  of  Tintagel  saw  a  dim  throng  of  sails 
rise  whitely  out  of  the  west.  The  streaks  of  canvas  stood 
above  the  sea  touched  by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 
There  was  something  ominous  in  these  gleaming  sails 
sweeping  in  a  wide  half-circle  out  of  the  unknown.  A 
motley  throng  of  castle  folk  gathered  on  the  walls.  Men 
spoke  of  the  barbarians  and  of  Ireland  as  they  watched  the 
ships  rising  solemn  and  silent  from  the  west.  Gorlois  him- 
self climbed  up  into  a  tower  and  gazed  long  at  these  sails 
whose  haven  was  as  yet  unknown.  He  learnt  little  by  the 
scrutiny.  The  ships  had  hardly  risen  above  the  purple 
twilight  when  night  came  and  shrouded  the  whole  in  vague 
and  impenetrable  gloom. 

Gorlois  ordered  the  castle  into  a  state  of  siege,  and  with 
the  night  an  atmosphere  of  suspense  gathered  about  Tintagel. 

About  midnight  some  dozen  points  of  fire  burst  out  redly 
on  the  hills.  Sudden  and  sinister  they  shone  like  beacon 
fires,  but  by  whom  lit  the  castle  folks  could  not  tell.  Men 
idled  on  the  walls,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  talking  in  under- 
tones, with  now  and  again  a  bluff  oath  to  invoke  courage. 
The  black  infinite,  above,  around,  seemed  to  hem  the  place 
as  eternity  hems  the  soul.  War  and  death  lurked  in  the 
dark,  and  on  the  rocks  the  sea  kept  up  a  perpetual  moan. 

Gorlois  walked  the  walls  with  several  of  his  knights. 
He  was  restless,  and  in  no  Christian  temper,  for  the  dark 
muzzled  him.  Not  that  he  feared  the  unknown,  or  the 
perils  that  might  lurk  on  hill  or  sea.  He  had  the  soul  of  a 
soldier,  loved  danger  for  its  own  sake,  and  took  a  hazard  as 
he  would  take  wine.  Yet  there  are  certain  thoughts  that 
haunt  a  man  for  all  his  hardihood,  thoughts  that  may  not 


TINT  A  GEL  357 

weaken  him  though  they  may  chafe  his  temper.  Such  to 
Gorlois  was  the  memory  of  a  starved  face  looking  out  at 
him  scornfully  from  the  gloom,  the  face  of  Igraine,  his  wife. 
That  night  Gorlois's  mind  was  prophetic  in  dual  measure. 
Like  a  good  captain  he  scanned  the  human  horizon  for 
snares  and  enmities,  old  feuds  and  the  vengeances  of  men. 
The  dark  sky  seemed  to  hold  out  two  scrolls  to  him  tersely 
illumined  as  to  the  near  future.  To  Gorlois  they  read  — 

THE    BARBARIANS, 
OR 

THE  KING  ! 

Forewarned  thus  in  spirit,  he  kept  to  the  walls  till  dawn. 
The  sea  sang  for  him  stern  epics  of  tumult  and  despair. 
Large  projects  were  moving  in  his  mind  like  waters  that 
bubble  up  darkly  in  a  well.  He  was  in  a  mood  for  great 
deeds,  alarms  and  plottings,  lusts,  gnashings,  and  the  splendid 
agonies  of  war. 

When  the  grey  veil  rose  from  the  world  many  faces 
looked  out  east  and  west  from  Tintagel  for  sign  of  legions 
or  of  ships  at  sea.  Strange  truth  !  not  a  sail  showed  upon 
the  ocean,  not  a  spear  or  shield  glimmered  on  the  eastern 
hills.  The  threatenings  of  the  night  seemed  to  have  cleared 
like  the  leaden  cloudscape  of  a  stormy  sky. 

Gorlois,  scarred,  brooding,  sinister,  appealed  his  knights 
as  to  the  event. 

"  Not  a  ship,  not  a  shield,"  he  said,  "  yet  I'll  swear  we 
saw  watchfires  on  the  hills.  Were  we  scared  for  nothing  ? " 

"  Devil's  beacons,"  quoth  one. 

"  I  have  heard  sailors  tell  of  the  phantom  fleet  of  the 
Phoenicians." 

"  Have  a  care,"  said  Sir  Isumbras  of  the  wrinkled  face ; 
11 1  remember  me  of  the  taking  of  Genorium ;  given  the 
chance  of  an  ambuscado,  the  good  captain  — " 

Gorlois  cut  in  upon  his  prosings. 

"  Scour  the  country,  well  and  good,"  he  said,  "  send  out 


358  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

your  riders  ;  we  will  see  whether  there  is  a  Saxon  betwixt 
Tintagel  and  Glastonbury." 

Gorlois  had  hardly  delivered  himself,  and  the  company 
was  passing  from  the  battlements,  when  a  trumpet-cry 
thrilled  the  solitary  morning  air.  Gorlois  and  his  knights 
halted  at  the  head  of  the  turret-stair,  and  looked  out  from 
the  walls  towards  the  east.  A  single  figure  on  horseback 
was  moving  along  the  ridge  leading  to  the  headland.  The 
rider  was  clad  in  black,  and  his  horse-trappings  were  of 
sable.  He  carried  neither  spear  nor  shield,  but  only  a 
herald's  long  trumpet  balanced  upon  his  thigh.  'He  rode 
very  much  at  his  leisure,  as  though  the  whole  world  could 
abide  his  business. 

Gorlois  eyed  him  blackly  under  his  hand. 

"  I  was  wrong,  sirs,"  he  said. 

Old  Isumbras's  wrinkles  deepened.  He  tapped  the  walls 
with  the  scabbard  of  his  sword,  and  waxed  oracular  after  an 
old  man's  fashion.  Gorlois  turned  his  broad  back  on  him. 

11  There  is  trouble  in  yonder  gentleman's  wallet,"  he  said. 

They  passed  with  clashing  arms  down  the  black  well  of 
the  stairway  to  the  court.  Gates  were  rumbling  on  their 
hinges.  The  herald  had  ridden  over  the  bridge,  and  the 
guards  had  given  him  passage.  He  was  brought  into  the 
court  where  Gorlois  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  half-circle  of 
knights.  The  herald  wore  a  cap  of  crimson  velvet  and  a 
mask  over  his  face.  He  walked  with  a  certain  stately 
swagger;  it  was  palpable  that  he  was  no  common  fellow. 

There  was  no  parley  on  either  part.  Those  who  watched 
saw  that  this  emissary  carried  a  case  of  scarlet  cloth  and  a 
naked  poniard.  He  gave  the  case  into  Gorlois's  hands,  but 
threw  the  poniard  on  the  stones  at  his  feet.  A  fine  insolence 
burnt  in  his  stride  and  gesturing.  Gorlois's  scar  seemed  to 
show  up  duskily  upon  his  cheek,  and  he  looked  as  though 
tempted  to  tear  the  mask  from  the  stranger's  face.  An  in- 
comprehensible dignity  waved  him  back,  and  while  he  dallied 
with  his  wrath,  the  man  turned  his  back  on  him  and  marched 
unconcernedly  for  the  gate.  The  court  bristled  with  steel, 


TINTAGEL  359 

but  none  hindered  or  molested  him.  They  heard  the  gate 
roll  to,  and  the  rattle  of  hoofs  on  the  bridge.  The  sound 
died  rapidly  away,  leaving  Tintagel  silent  as  a  ruin. 

Gorlois  picked  up  the  poniard,  for  none  of  his  men 
stirred,  and  cut  the  woven  band  that  held  the  lappets  of  the 
case.  The  white  corner  of  a  waxen  tablet  came  to  light. 
Gorlois  drew  the  tablet  out,  held  it  at  arm's  length,  and  read 
the  inscription  thereon.  His  face  grew  hard  and  vigilant  as 
he  read,  and  he  seemed  to  spell  the  thing  over  to  himself 
several  times  before  satisfied  to  the  letter.  He  stood  awhile 
in  thought,  and  then  leaving  his  knights  to  their  conjectures, 
walked  away  to  that  quarter  of  the  castle  where  Morgan  la 
Blanche  had  her  lodging. 

He  found  the  woman  couched  by  the  window  that 
looked  out  towards  the  sea.  Though  dawn  had  but  lately 
come,  she  was  awake,  and  sat  combing  her  hair,  while  a 
kitten  slept  on  the  blue  coverlet  covering  her  lap.  Wine 
and  fruit  stood  on  the  table  near  the  bed,  with  scented 
water,  a  rouge-pot,  and  a  bowl  of  flowers.  Morgan  was 
smothered  in  fine  white  linen,  banded  at  neck  and  wrists 
with  sky-blue  silk.  A  kerchief  of  gold  gossamer  work 
covered  her  shoulders. 

Gorlois  touched  her  lips,  and  let  her  hair  run  through 
his  fingers  like  water. 

"  Minion,  you  are  awake  early." 

Morgan's  face  shone  white,  and  her  eyes  looked  tired 
and  faded.  She  had  heard  rumours  and  had  watched  the 
night  through,  being  tender-conscienced  as  to  her  own  skin. 
Adversity,  even  in  its  meaner  forms,  was  a  thing  insufferably 
insolent,  a  cloud  in  the  absolute  gold  of  a  sensuous  existence. 
Being  quick  to  mark  any  shadowing  of  the  horizon,  she 
was  undeceived  by  Gorlois's  mere  smile.  She  caught  his 
hand  and  stared  up  at  him. 

«  Well ! " 

"  What  troubles  you  ?  " 

"  Is  it  to  be  a  siege  ?  " 

Gorlois  stretched  his  strong  neck,  laughed,  and  eschewed 


360  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

subtlety.  It  interested  him  to  see  this  worldling  ruffled, 
Morgan,  whose  chief  care  was  how  the  world  might  serve 
her. 

"  Read,"  he  said,  putting  the  tablet  into  her  hands. 

Morgan  sat  up  in  bed  with  her  fair  hair  streaming  over 
her  shoulders.  She  traced  out  the  words  hurriedly  with  a 
white  finger-tip.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  large  as  she 
read  ;  her  hands  trembled  a  very  little.  At  the  end  thereof 
she  dropped  the  tablet  into  her  lap  and  looked  at  Gorlois 
with  a  certain  petulant  dread. 

"  How  did  the  man  hear  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  God  knows  !  " 

"  Treachery  ! " 

Gorlois  jerked  his  belt  and  said  nothing. 

The  woman  Morgan  sat  and  hugged  her  knees.  She 
looked  out  to  sea  with  a  frown  on  her  face,  and  the  blue 
coverlet  dragged  in  tight  folds  about  her  waist.  The 
kitten  woke  up  and  began  to  play  with  Morgan's  hair  as  it 
trailed  down  upon  the  bed.  She  cuffed  the  little  beast 
aside,  and  looked  at  Gorlois.  Her  eyes  now  were  steely 
and  clear,  and  very  blue  under  her  white  forehead. 

"  Obviously,  he  has  learnt  all,"  she  said. 

Gorlois  nodded  morosely. 
'  "  And  this  matter  is  to  be  between  you  alone  ?  " 

"  I  have  his  word." 

«  And  he  is  a  fool  for  truth." 

Silence  held  them  both  awhile,  and  Morgan  seemed  to 
dally  with  her  thoughts.  Her  lips  worked  loosely  as  though 
moving  with  her  mind.  The  kitten  clawed  its  way  up  the 
coverlet  and  rubbed  its  glossy  flank  against  the  woman's  arm. 

"  What  of  an  ambush  ?  "  she  suggested  mildly. 

Gorlois  darted  a  look  at  her  and  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  it  shall  be  fair  between  us." 

"  Honour  !  "  —  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  am  a  soldier." 

"  By  the  prophet,  that  is  the  strange  part  of  it  all.  You 
go  out  to  kill  a  man,  and  yet  trouble  about  the  method." 


TINTAGEL  361 

"There  honour  enters." 

*'  You  kill  him,  all  the  same." 

Morgan  tossed  the  quilt  aside,  thrust  a  pair  of  glimmer- 
ing feet  out  of  the  bed,  and  stood  at  Gorlois's  elbow.  She 
took  the  tablet  of  wax  and  held  it  over  a  lamp  that  was 
burning  till  the  wax  softened  and  suffered  the  lettering  to  be 
effaced.  Gorlois's  great  sword  hung  from  the  carved  bed- 
post. Morgan  took  it  and  buckled  it  to  the  man  with  her 
plump,  worldly  little  hands. 

"  Let  it  not  fail,"  she  said. 

Gorlois  kissed  her  lips. 

"There  will  be  no  King;  and  the  heir  —  well,  you  are 
a  great  soldier,  and  men  fear  your  name." 

She  kept  him  with  her  awhile  and  then  bade  him  fare- 
well. The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when  Gorlois,  in 
glittering  harness,  rode  out  alone  from  Tintagel,  and  passed 
away  into  the  wilds. 


VI 

THERE  was  a  preternatural  brightness  over  sea  and  cliff  that 
day.  Headland  and  height  stood  limned  with  a  luminous 
grandeur ;  the  sea  was  a  vast  opal ;  mountainous  clouds 
sailed  solemn  and  stupendous  over  the  world.  Towards 
evening  it  grew  still  and  sultry,  and  storms  threatened.  A 
vapoury  leviathan  lowered  black  out  of  the  east,  devouring 
the  blue,  with  scudding  mists  spray-like  about  his  belly. 
The  sky  changed  to  a  sable  cavern.  In  the  west  the  sun 
still  blazed  through  mighty  crevices,  candescent  gold ;  the 
world  seemed  a  chaos  of  glory  and  shadow.  Sea-birds  came 
screaming  to  the  cliffs.  The  walls  of  Tintagel  burnt 
athwart  the  west. 

Presently  out  of  the  blue  bosom  of  an  unearthly  twilight 
a  vague  wind  rose.  Gusts  came,  clamoured,  and  died  into 
nothingness.  The  world  seemed  to  shudder.  The  dry 


362  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

bracken  and  grass  on  the  hillsides  hissed  as  the  wind  came 
seldom  and  tumultuous.  The  roadway  smoked.  In  the 
valleys  the  trees  moaned,  shivered,  and  stood  still. 

Mark  of  the  guard  stood  in  the  garden  leaning  on  his 
spear,  watching  the  storm  gathering  above.  It  was  his 
guard  that  night  over  the  stairway  leading  to  Igraine's 
room,  and  he  stood  under  the  shadow  of  the  tower. 

A  red  sword  flashed  sudden  out  of  the  east,  and  smote 
the  hills.  Thunder  followed,  growling  over  the  world. 
Then  rain  came,  and  a  whirlwind  seemed  to  fly  from  the 
face  of  the  storm.  In  the  west  a  burning  crater  still  poured 
gold  upon  a  restless  and  afflicted  sea. 

It  grew  dark  very  rapidly,  and  a  thundering  canopy  soon 
overarched  Tintagel.  Now  and  again  flaming  cracks  of 
fire  ran  athwart  the  dome  of  the  night,  lighting  battlements 
and  sky  with  a  weird  momentary  splendour.  Rain  rattled 
on  the  stones  and  drifted  whirling  against  door  and  casement. 
Small  torrents  formed  along  the  walks ;  every  spout  and 
gully  gushed  and  gurgled.  Like  an  underchant  came  the 
hoarse  cry  of  the  sea. 

Mark  had  withdrawn  under  the  arch  of  the  tower's 
entry.  A  cresset  flamed  and  spluttered  higher  up  the  stair- 
way, throwing  down  an  ineffectual  gleam  upon  the  man's 
armour  as  he  stood  and  looked  into  the  night.  The  storm 
fires  lit  his  face,  making  it  start  out  of  the  dark  white  and 
spiritual,  with  largely  luminous  eyes.  He  held  motionless 
at  his  post  like  a  Roman  soldier  watching  the  downfall  of 
Pompeii. 

Solitude  possessed  garden,  court,  and  battlement,  for  no 
one  stirred  on  such  a  night.  The  knights  of  the  garrison 
were  making  merry  in  the  great  hall,  and  the  men  of  the 
guard,  unpestered  by  their  superiors,  had  gathered  a  great 
company  in  the  guard-room  to  emulate  their  officers.  The 
scullion  knaves  and  wenches  had  fled  the  kitchen ;  the 
sentinels  had  sneaked  from  the  walls.  There  was  no  fear 
now  of  a  leaguer.  Had  not  Duke  Gorlois  declared  as  much 
before  his  sally  ? 


TINTAGEL  363 

Mark  alone  stood  to  his  post,  listening  to  the  laughter 
that  reached  him  between  the  stanzas  of  the  storm.  His 
face  was  like  the  face  of  a  statue,  yet  alert  and  eager  for  all 
its  calm.  More  than  once  he  went  out  through  the  storm 
of  rain  to  the  great  gate  and  stood  there  listening  while  the 
wind  howled  overhead.  About  midnight  the  noise  of 
gaming  and  revelling  seemed  suddenly  to  cease,  as  when 
folk  hear  the  tolling  of  a  bell  for  prayer.  Only  the  wind 
kept  up  its  hooting  over  the  walls. 

Mark  stood  a  long  while  by  the  guard-room  door  with 
his  ear  to  the  planking.  Seldom  a  quavering  cry  came  out 
to  him,  and  the  place  grew  empty  of  human  sound.  All 
Tintagel  seemed  asleep,  though  many  casements  still  shone 
out  yellow  against  the  gloom.  Mark  slipped  to  the  main 
gate.  There  was  a  postern  in  it  for  service  after  dark.  He 
drew  back  the  bolts  and  loosed  the  chain  from  the  staple, 
and  leaving  the  small  door  ajar,  passed  back  to  the  tower's 
entry. 

Thunder  went  rolling  over  the  sea.  Mark  left  his  spear 
by  the  porch  and  went  up  the  first  few  steps  of  the  stair- 
way. He  took  the  cresset  from  its  bracket,  carried  it  down, 
and  tossed  it  into  the  court,  where  the  flames  spluttered  out 
in  the  rain.  Darkness  accomplished,  he  went  up  the  stair- 
way to  the  short  gallery  leading  to  Igraine's  room.  At  the 
top  he  stood  and  listened.  He  heard  the  sound  of  breathing, 
and  knew  that  it  came  from  the  woman  Malmain  who  slept 
in  the  alcove  before  the  door. 

Mark  smote  the  wall  a  ringing  blow  with  the  handle  of 
his  poniard.  A  bench  creaked  ;  some  one  yawned  and 
began  to  grumble.  It  was  so  dark  that  the  very  walls  were 
part  of  the  prevailing  gloom. 

"  Who's  there  ?  " 

Mark  stood  aside. 

"  The  cresset's  out  on  the  stairs." 

Two  arms  came  groping  along  the  wall. 

u  You've  been  asleep,  cherub." 

"  Mark  !  " 


364  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

"  You  were  forgetting  our  tryst." 

A  thick  sensual  laugh  sounded  from  the  stairhead. 
Something  opaque  moved  in  the  dark ;  a  pair  of  arms  felt 
along  the  passage  ;  a  hand  touched  Mark's  face.  Malmain's 
arms  wrapped  the  man's  body ;  she  lifted  him  to  her  with 
her  great  strength,  and  kissed  his  lips. 

"  Rogue  !  " 

Once,  twice,  a  streaking  shadow  rose  and  fell  with  the 
faintest  glinting  of  steel.  There  was  a  staggering  sound,  a 
wet  cough,  a  sharp-drawn  breath,  and  then  silence.  Malmain 
fell  against  the  wall  with  her  hands  to  her  side,  held  rigid 
a  moment,  and  then  slid  into  a  heap.  Mark  bent  over  the 
woman  and  gripped  her  wrist. 

In  a  short  while  he  left  the  body  lying  there  and  moved 
to  the  door.  Sliding  his  long  ringers  over  the  panels,  he 
found  the  spring  that  marked  the  catch.  Light  streamed 
through  into  the  gallery  and  fell  upon  Malmain  as  she  lay 
huddled  against  the  wall,  her  hair  trailing  along  the  floor 
like  rills  of  blood. 

A  lamp  burnt  in  the  room,  showering  a  thin  silvery 
lustre  from  its  pedestal,  leaving  the  angles  in  dull  brown 
shadow.  The  room  was  bare  and  bleak  as  a  beggar's  attic. 
The  one  window  had  been  shuttered  up  against  the  rain,  and 
the  crazy  lattice  shook  in  the  wind.  The  whole  tower  seemed 
to  quake,  pressed  upon  by  the  broad  shoulders  of  the  storm. 

Gorlois's  wife  lay  asleep  on  a  rough  bed  in  the  centre  of 
the  room.  Mark  went  forward  and  stood  over  her.  The 
light  fell  upon  Igraine's  face  and  haloed  it  with  a  quiet 
radiance.  Her  hands  were  folded  over  her  breast,  and  the 
man  looking  upon  her  face  saw  it  drawn  and  haggard  even 
in  sleep.  It  had  a  kind  of  tragic  fairness,  a  stained  beauty 
like  the  wistful  strangeness  of  an  autumnal  garden.  It  was 
pale,  piteous,  thin,  and  spiritual.  The  flesh  shone  like  white 
wax ;  the  short  hair  glimmered  like  a  net  of  gold. 

So  changed,  so  ethereal,  was  the  face  of  the  sleeper,  that 
the  man  stood  and  looked  at  her  with  gradual  awe.  Passed 
indeed  was  the  blood-red  rose  of  life,  green  summer  with 


TINTAGEL  365 

its  ecstasy  of  song.  Autumn's  rich  tapestries  of  bronze  and 
gold  were  falling  before  the  wind  of  winter  and  the  shrill 
sword  of  death.  The  woman  on  the  bed  looked  like  some 
pale  princess  slumbering  out  her  doom  in  some  baleful 
tower. 

Igraine's  sleep  was  shallow  and  ineffectual,  a  restless 
stupor  impressed  upon  a  troubled  mind.  The  storm  seemed 
to  figure  in  her  dreams.  A  kind  of  splendid  misery  played 
upon  her  face,  such  misery  as  floods  forth  from  some  old 
legend,  strange  and  sad.  Her  hands  tossed  to  and  fro  over 
the  coverlet  like  fallen  flowers  stirred  by  a  wind.  Her  lids 
drooped  over  half-opened  eyes. 

A  sudden  gust  broke  the  catch  of  the  casement,  and 
swung  the  frame  into  the  room.  All  the  boisterous 
laughter  of  the  storm  seemed  to  sweep  in  with  the  wind. 
With  the  racket  Igraine  woke  and  started  up  in  bed  upon 
her  elbow.  The  lamp  flame,  draught-slanted  over  the  rim, 
gave  but  a  feeble  light ;  the  room  was  filled  with  wavering 
darkness. 

Mark  stood  back  from  the  bed.  There  was  blood  upon 
his  tunic.  For  a  moment  he  was  speechless  like  a  man 
caught  in  a  theft. 

In  the  dim  light  and  to  the  half-awakened  senses  of  the 
sleeper,  the  intruder  stood  for  Gorlois,  beard,  face,  and 
figure.  A  moment's  hesitancy  lost  Mark  the  lead.  The 
door  stood  wide.  What  ensued  came  crowded  into  the 
compass  of  a  few  seconds. 

Igraine,  quick  to  conceive,  jerked  the  coverlet  from  the 
bed.  Before  Mark  could  prevent  her,  she  had  thrown  it 
over  the  lamp  and  smothered  the  flame.  The  room  sank 
into  instant  darkness  and  confusion.  Mark's  voice  sounded 
above  the  storm.  Then  came  the  slamming  of  a  door,  and 
silence  save  for  the  blustering  of  the  wind. 

Igraine  stood  on  the  threshold  in  the  dark,  and  drew  her 
breath  fast.  She  had  shut  the  man  in  the  room,  and  the 
door  opened  only  from  without  by  a  spring  catch.  Mark 
of  the  guard  was  trapped. 


366  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

And  Malmain  ! 

Igraine  remembered  the  woman,  and  heeding  nothing  of 
the  voice  that  called  to  her  from  the  room,  groped  her  way 
to  the  stairhead,  expecting  at  every  step  to  hear  the  woman's 
challenge  start  out  of  the  gloom.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery 
she  nearly  tripped  and  fell  over  some  inanimate  thing. 
Reaching  down  out  of  curiosity  she  drew  her  hand  back 
with  a  half  cry,  her  fingers  fouled  with  a  thick  warm  ooze. 
An  indefinite  terror  seized  her  in  the  dark.  She  went 
reeling  down  the  stairway,  clutching  at  the  walls,  grasping 
the  air.  A  faint  outcry  still  followed  her  from  the  room 
above. 

In  the  garden  rain  still  rattled,  and  scud  blew  from  the 
pools.  Igraine  stood  motionless  under  the  shadow  of  a 
cypress,  with  her  face  turned  to  the  sky.  Her  ragged  gown 
blew  about  her  bare  ankles,  and  the  wind  whirled  rain  into 
her  face.  She  drew  deep  breaths  and  stretched  out  her 
hands  to  the  night,  for  there  was  the  kiss  of  liberty  in  this 
cold,  shrill  shower. 

Anon  the  old  fear  urged  her  on,  companioned  now  by  a 
reawakened  courage.  She  was  weak  and  starved,  but  what 
of  that  !  The  storm  seemed  to  enter  into  her  soul  with  its 
blustery  vigour,  crying  to  her  with  the  multitudinous  echoes 
of  the  night.  What  was  the  mere  peril  of  the  flesh  to  one 
who  had  faced  spiritual  torture  more  keen  than  death  ! 

Creeping  round  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall  with  quick 
glances  darted  into  the  dark  she  made  her  way  round  the 
court  to  the  great  gate.  The  gate-house  was  dark  as  the 
sky,  and  there  was  no  tramping  of  sentinels  from  wall  to 
wall.  Igraine  crept  into  the  yawn  of  the  archway,  brushing 
along  the  stones.  With  each  step  she  listened  for  the  rattle 
of  a  spear,  and  looked  for  the  armed  figure  that  should  clash 
out  on  her  from  the  gloom.  She  won  the  gate  and  leant 
against  it,  breathless  from  mere  suspense.  Her  fingers 
groped  over  the  great  beams,  touched  an  outstanding  edge, 
and  tugged  at  it.  The  edge  moved  ;  a  door  came  open  and 
let  in  the  wind. 


TINTAGEL  367 

Igraine  stood  a  moment  and  pondered  this  mystery  in 
her  heart.  She  had  chanced  on  nothing  in  the  whole  castle 
save  one  man  and  a  corpse.  Some  strange  doom  might 
have  fallen  upon  the  place  like  the  doom  that  smote  the 
Assyrians  in  their  sleep. 

Plain  before  her  stood  the  open  gate  and  liberty.  The 
hint  was  sufficient  for  the  occasion.  Igraine,  leaving 
Tintagel  to  the  unknown,  gathered  her  rags  round  her  and 
passed  out  into  the  night. 


VII 

A  ROLLING  country  spread  with  moor,  wood,  and  crag.  A 
storm  creeping  black  out  of  the  east  over  the  tops  of  a  forest 
of  pines.  On  the  slope  of  a  hill  covered  with  a  mauve  mist 
of  nodding  scabei  and  bronzed  tracts  of  bracken,  two  horse- 
men motionless  in  armour.  Far  away,  the  glimmer  of  a 
distant  sea. 

Uther  the  King  wheeled  his  horse  and  pointed  north- 
wards towards  the  pine  woods  with  his  sword.  The  challenge 
came  plainly  in  the  gesture.  There  was  no  need  for  vapour- 
ing or  for  heroics;  a  quick  stare — eye  for  eye — said  every- 
thing a  soldier  could  desire. 

Uther,  on  his  black  horse,  rode  with  loose  bridle,  looking 
straight  ahead  into  the  darkness  of  the  woods.  He  carried 
his  naked  sword  slanted  over  his  shoulder.  Frequent  streams 
of  sunlight  flashed  down  upon  his  harness  and  made  it'burn 
under  the  boughs,  leaving  his  face  calm  and  solemn  under  the 
shadow  of  his  helm.  Gorlois  held  some  paces  away,  stiff 
and  arrogant,  watching  the  man  on  his  flank  with  restless, 
smouldering  eyes.  It  was  a  silent  pilgrimage  for  them  both, 
a  pilgrimage  to  a  shrine  whence,  for  one  of  them,  there 
might  be  no  return. 

A  shimmering  curtain  of  sunlight  spread  itself  suddenly 
before  them  among  the  pines.  The  two  men  rode  out  into 
an  oval  glade  palisaded  by  the  innumerable  pillars  of  the 


368  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

wood,  bowered  in  by  rolling  heights  of  dusky  green.  On 
all  sides  the  spires  made  a  jagged  circle  of  the  sky.  A  pool, 
black  as  obsidian,  slept  in  the  sun.  Heather  bloomed  there, 
girdling  the  confines  of  wood  and  water  with  a  blaze  of 
purple. 

Uther  dismounted  and  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree.  His 
deliberation  in  no  way  pandered  to  Gorlois's  self-esteem  ; 
there  was  to  be  no  flurry  or  bombast  in  the  event.  No  one 
was  to  witness  this  judgment  of  the  sword  5  chivalry  and 
malice  alike  were  to  be  locked  up  in  the  heart  of  the  forest. 
A  smooth  circle  of  grass  lay  on  the  northern  side  of  the  pool, 
promising  well  to  the  two  who  moved  thither  with  nothing 
more  eloquent  than  an  exchange  of  gestures. 

The  heather  swept  away,  a  purple  dirge  to  the  black 
sounding  of  the  pines,  and  a  whorl  of  storm-laden  clouds 
swam  towards  the  sun.  Uther,  with  a  face  strong  as  a  god's, 
swung  his  sword  from  his  shoulder  and  grounded  the  point 
in  the  sod.  His  destiny  waxed  great  in  him  in  that 
hour.  There  was  something  inevitable  in  the  quiet  of  his 
eyes. 

"  You  are  ready,"  he  said  very  simply. 

Gorlois  jerked  a  quick  glance  at  him,  and  licked  his 
lips.  He,  too,  was  in  no  mood  for  words  or  matters  ethical. 
Temporal  lusts  ran  strong  in  his  blood. 

u  For  a  woman's  honour  !  " 

"  As  you  will,  sire,"  with  a  shrug. 

11  We  have  no  need  of  courtesies." 

"  Over  a  harlot !  " 

"  Guard,  and  God  pardon  you." 

Both  swords  flickered  up  hotly  in  the  sunlight.  Gorlois, 
sinewy  and  full  of  fettle,  gave  a  half-shout  and  sprang  to 
engage.  He  had  vast  faith  in  himself,  having  come  scathe- 
less out  of  many  such  tussles  ;  nor  had  he  ever  been  humbled 
by  man  or  beast.  Vigorous  as  a  March  morning  he  launched 
the  first  blow,  a  grim  cut  laid  in  with  both  hands,  a  cut  that 
rattled  home  half-parried  on  the  other's  shoulder.  Uther, 
quick  for  all  his  calmness,  gave  the  point  in  retort,  a  lunge 


TINTAGEL  369 

that  slid  under  the  Cornishman's  sword  and  made  the  muscles 
gape  in  Gorlois's  neck.  There  was  blood  to  both. 

The  swords  began  to  leap  and  sing  in  the  sunlight,  and 
the  forest  echoed  to  the  clangour  of  arms.  Both  men  fought 
without  shields,  and  for  a  season  well  within  themselves,  and 
there  was  much  craft  on  either  part.  Cut  and  counter-cut 
rang  through  the  pine  alleys  like  the  cry  of  axes  whirled  by 
woodmen's  hands.  As  yet  there  was  no  bustle,  no  wild 
smiting.  Every  stroke  came  clean  and  true,  lashed  home 
with  the  weight  of  arms  and  body. 

Hate  overset  mere  swordsmanship  anon,  and  reason  grew 
less  and  less  as  the  men  waxed  warm.  Gorlois,  running  in 
with  a  swinging  buffet,  stumbled  over  a  heather  tuft  and 
caught  a  counter  full  in  the  face.  The  smart  of  it  and  a 
split  lip  quickened  him  immeasurably.  The  blades  began 
to  whirl  with  more  malice,  less  precision.  Matters  grew 
tumultuous  as  leaves  in  a  whirlwind.  For  some  minutes 
there  seemed  nothing  but  a  tangle  of  swords  in  the  sun,  a 
staggering  chaos  of  red  and  gold. 

Such  fighting  burnt  itself  to  a  standstill  in  less  than  three 
minutes.  Uther  drew  back  like  a  boar  pressed  by  hounds. 
There  was  no  whit  of  weakening  in  his  mood,  only  a  re- 
assertive  reason  that  would  trust  nothing  to  the  fortune  of 
a  moment.  The  muscles  stood  out  in  his  strong  throat, 
blood  ran  from  his  slashed  tunic,  and  he  was  breathing  hard  ; 
but  his  manhood  burnt  strong  and  true.  Gorlois,  with 
mouth  awry,  eyed  him  with  sword  half  up,  and  drew  back 
in  turn.  His  face  streamed.  He  spat  blood  upon  the 
heather. 

"  God  !  what  work." 

It  was  Gorlois's  testimony,  wrung  from  him  by  the  stress 
of  sheer  hard  fighting.  The  storm-cloud  crept  across  the 
sun  and  overcharged  the  world  with  gloom.  The  pool  grew 
more  black  in  its  purple  bed  ;  the  forest  began  to  weave  the 
twilight  into  its  columned  halls. 

"  You  lack  breath,  sire." 

"  I  wait  for  you,"  Uther  said. 


370  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

But  the  man  of  Tintagel  was  in  a  sinister  mood  for  the 
moment.  Genius  moved  his  sweating  brain.  He  dropped 
into  philosophic  brevities  as  he  spat  blood  from  his  bruised 
lips. 

"  All  for  a  woman,"  he  said  thickly. 

"  True." 

"  Are  you  much  in  love,  sire  ?  " 

Uther  answered  him  nothing,  but  waited  with  his  sword 
over  his  shoulder. 

"  She  made  fuss  enough." 

Still  silence. 

"  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  obstinate  in  making  an 
end.  And  we  buried  her  in  the  sand,  where  the  waves 
roll  at  flood.  Now,  you  and  I  lose  our  brains  over  a 
corpse." 

Uther's  sword  shone  again. 

"  Guard,"  he  said  quietly. 

A  sudden  gust  came  clamouring  through  the  wood. 
The  darkening  boughs  tossed  and  jerked  against  the  sky, 
breathing  out  a  multitudinous  moan,  a  hoarse  cry  as  of  a 
smitten  host.  The  east  piled  thunder  over  the  world.  It 
was  the  same  storm  that  swept  the  battlements  of  Tintagel. 

By  the  pool  swords  rang ;  red  and  gold  strove  and 
staggered  over  the  heather.  It  was  the  death  tussle  and  a 
sharp  one  at  that.  Destiny  or  not,  matters  were  going  all 
against  Gorlois  j  his  blows  were  out  of  luck ;  he  was  rent 
time  on  end  and  gave  little  in  return.  Rabid,  dazed,  he 
began  making  blind  rushes  that  boded  ill  for  him.  More 
than  once  he  stumbled,  and  was  mired  to  "the  knees  in  the 
pool. 

The  end  came  suddenly  enough  as  the  light  failed. 
Both  men  smote  together ;  both  swords  met  with  a  sound 
that  seemed  to  shake  the  woods.  Gorlois's  blade  snapped  at 
the  hilt. 

He  stood  still  a  moment,  then  plucked  out  his  poniard 
and  made  a  spring.  A  merciless  down-cut  beat  him  back. 
The  fine  courage,  the  strenuous  self-trust,  seemed  to  ebb 


TINT  A  GEL  371 

from  him  on  a  sudden  as  though  the  blow  had  broken  his 
soul.  He  fell  on  his  knees  and  held  his  hands  up  with  a 
thick,  choking  cry. 

"  Mercy  !      God's  mercy  !  " 

"  Curse  you  !      Had  you  pity  on  the  woman  ?  " 

"  Sire,  sire !  " 

Thunder  rolled  overhead,  and  the  girdles  of  the  sky  were 
loosed.  A  torrent  of  rain  beat  upon  the  man's  streaming 
face ;  he  tottered  on  his  knees,  and  still  held  his  hands  to 
the  heavens. 

"  I  lied,"  he  said.     "  God  witness,  I  lied." 

«Ah  —  !" 

u  The  woman  lives  —  is  at  Tintagel." 

"Man  —  " 

"  Give  me  life,  sire,  give   me  life ;  you   shall  have  her." 

Uther  looked  at  him  and  heaved  up  his  sword.  Gorlois 
saw  the  King's  face,  gave  a  great  cry,  and  cowered  behind 
his  hands.  It  was  all  ended  in  a  moment.  The  rain  washed 
his  gilded  harness  as  he  lay  with  his  blood  soaking  into  the 
heather. 

VIII 

As  the  world  grew  grey  with  waking  light  Uther  the  King 
came  from  the  woods,  and  heard  the  noise  of  the  sea  in  the 
hush  that  breathed  in  the  dawn.  The  storm  had  passed 
over  the  ocean,  and  a  vast  quiet  hung  upon  the  lips  of  the 
day.  In  the  east  a  green  streak  shone  above  the  hills.  The 
sky  was  still  aglitter  with  sparse  stars,  and  an  immensity  of 
gloom  brooded  over  the  sea. 

Gaunt,  wounded,  triumphant,  he  rode  up  beneath  the 
banners  of  the  dawn,  eager  yet  fearful,  inspired  and  strong 
of  purpose.  Wood  and  hill  slept  in  a  haze  of  mist ;  the 
birds  were  only  beginning  in  the  thickets,  like  the  souls  of 
children  yet  unborn  calling  to  eternity.  Beyond,  on  the 
cliffs,  Tintagel,  wrapped  round  with  night,  stood  silent  and 
sombre  athwart  the  west. 


372  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

Uther  climbed  from  the  valley  as  the  day  came  with 
splendour,  a  glow  as  of  molten  gold  streaming  from  the  east. 
Wood  and  hillside  glimmered  in  a  smoking  mist,  dew- 
brilliant,  wonderful.  As  the  sun  rose  the  sea  stretched 
sudden  into  the  arch  of  the  west  —  a  great  pavement  of  gold. 
A  mysterious  lustre  hovered  over  the  cliffs ;  waves  of  light 
beat  like  saffron  spray  upon  Tintagel. 

The  dawn-light  found  an  echo  on  Uther's  face.  He 
came  that  morning  the  ransomer,  the  champion,  a  King 
indeed  ;  Spring  bursting  the  thongs  of  Winter ;  Day  thrust- 
ing back  the  Night.  His  manhood  smote  in  him  like  the 
deep-throated  cry  of  a  great  bell,  voluminous  and  solemn. 
The  towers  on  the  cliff  were  haloed  with  magic  hues.  Life, 
glory,  joy,  lay  locked  in  the  grey  stone  walls.  His  heart 
sang  in  him,  and  his  eyes  were  afire. 

As  he  walked  his  horse  with  a  hollow  thunder  of  hoofs 
over  the  bridge,  he  took  his  horn  and  blew  a  blast  thereon. 
There  was  a  quiet,  a  lifelessness,  about  the  place  that  smote 
his  senses,  bodying  forth  mystery.  The  walls  were  void 
against  the  sky.  At  the  sound  of  the  horn  there  came  no 
stirring  of  armed  men,  no  answering  fanfare,  no  glimmering 
of  faces  at  the  casements.  Only  the  gulls  circled  from  the 
cliffs,  and  the  sea  made  its  moan  along  the  strand. 

Uther  sat  in  the  saddle  and  looked  from  tower  to  battle- 
ment, from  battlement  to  gate.  There  was  something 
tragic  about  the  place,  the  silence  of  a  sacked  town,  the 
ghostliness  of  a  ship  sailing  the  seas  with  a  dead  crew  upon 
her  deck.  Uther's  glance  rested  on  the  open  postern,  an 
empty  streak  in  the  great  gate.  His  face  darkened  some- 
what ;  his  eyes  lost  their  sanguine  glow.  There  was  some- 
thing betwixt  death  and  treachery  in  all  this  quiet. 

He  dismounted  and  left  his  horse  on  the  bridge.  The 
postern  beckoned  him.  He  went  in  like  a  man  nerved  for 
peril,  with  sword  drawn  and  shield  above  his  head,  ready  for 
blows  in  dark  corners.  Again  he  blew  his  horn.  The 
blast  rang  and  resounded  under  the  arch  of  the  gate.  No 
man  came  to  answer  or  avenge  it. 


T1NTAGEL  373 

The  guard-room  door  stood  ajar  j  Uther  thrust  it  open 
with  the  point  of  his  sword  and  looked  in.  A  grey 
light  filtered  through  the  narrow  windows.  The  place 
was  like  the  cave  of  the  Seven  Sleepers.  Men,  women, 
guards,  servants,  were  huddled  on  the  benches  and  on  the 
floor.  Some  lay  fallen  across  the  settles  ;  others  sat  with 
their  heads  fallen  forwards  upon  the  table ;  a  few  had 
crawled  towards  the  door.  They  were  cast  in  every  posture, 
every  attitude,  bleak,  stiff,  and  motionless.  Some  had  froth 
upon  their  lips,  glistening  eyes,  clenched  fingers.  The 
shadow  of  death  was  over  the  whole. 

The  King's  face  was  as  grey  as  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
He  had  looked  for  human  throes,  perils,  strong  hands,  and 
the  vehemence  of  man.  There  was  something  here,  a  calm 
horror,  a  mystery  that  hurled  back  the  warm  courage  of  the 
heart.  Prophecy  lurked  open-mouthed  in  the  shadows. 
Uther  shouldered  his  sword,  passed  out,  and  drew  to  the 
door. 

In  the  great  court  he  looked  round  him  like  a  traveller 
who  has  stumbled  upon  a  city  wrapped  in  a  magic  sleep. 
Urged  on  by  manifold  forebodings,  and  knowing  the  place 
of  old,  he  went  first  to  the  State  quarters  and  hunted  the 
rooms  through  and  through.  The  same  silence  met  him 
everywhere.  In  the  great  hall  he  came  upon  a  ring  of 
corpses  round  a  tabie,  a  ring  of  men  in  armour,  stiff  and 
rigid  as  stone,  with  wine  and  fruit  mocking  their  staring 
eyes.  In  the  lodging  of  the  women  he  found  a  lady  laid  on 
a  couch  by  an  open  window.  Her  fair  hair  swept  the 
pillow  ;  her  eyes  were  wide  and  glazed  ;  an  open  casket  lay 
on  the  bed,  and  strings  of  jewels  were  scattered  on  the 
coverlet.  The  woman's  face  was  white  as  apple  blossom ; 
she  had  a  half-eaten  pomegranate  in  her  hand. 

Uther  passed  from  the  death-chamber  of  Morgan  la 
Blanche  to  the  garden.  The  shadows  of  the  place,  the 
staring  faces,  the  stiff  hands  clawing  at  things  inanimate, 
were  like  phantasms  of  the  night.  He  took  the  sea  air  into 
his  nostrils,  and  looked  into  the  blue  realism  of  the  sky. 


374  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

All  about  him  the  garden  glistened  in  the  dawn,  the 
cypresses  shimmered  with  dew,  the  pool  was  like  a  steel 
buckler  on  cloth  of  green.  Here  was  the  placid  life  of 
flowers  making  very  death  the  more  apparent  to  his  soul. 

As  he  stood  in  deep  thought,  half  dreading  what  he  still  half 
knew,  a  voice  called  to  him,  breaking  suddenly  the  ponderous 
silence  of  the  place.  A  face  showed  overhead  at  the  upper 
window  in  the  tower;  a  hand  beckoned  and  pointed  towards 
the  tower's  entry.  Here  at  last  was  something  quick  and 
tangible  in  the  flesh,  something  that  could  speak  of  the 
handicraft  of  death.  Uther  climbed  the  stairs  and  found 
Malmain's  body  by  the  well.  When  he  had  looked  at  the 
woman's  face  and  seen  blood  he  paid  no  more  heed  to  her. 
She  was  only  one  among  many. 

Guided  by  a  voice,  Uther  unlatched  the  door  and  passed 
in  with  sword  drawn.  A  man  met  him  on  the  threshold,  a 
man  with  the  face  of  a  Dante,  and  shaven  lip  and  chin. 
It  was  the  face  of  Merlin. 


IX 

WITHOUT  the  gate  of  Tintagel  stood  Uther  the  King 
looking  out  towards  the  eastern  hills  clear  against  the  calm 
of  the  sky.  He  stood  bare-headed,  like  one  in  prayer ;  his 
face  was  strong,  yet  wistful  and  patient  as  a  sick  child's. 
At  his  elbow  waited  Merlin,  silent  and  inscrutable.  Much 
had  passed  between  them  in  that  upper  room,  that  room 
more  hallowed  to  Uther  than  the  rock  tomb  of  the 
Christ. 

u  Ever,  ever  night,"  he  said,  stretching  out  his  hands  as 
to  an  eternal  void. 

Merlin's  eyes  seemed  to  look  leagues  away  over  moor, 
hill,  and  valley.  A  strange  tenderness  played  upon  his  lips, 
and  there  was  a  radiance  upon  his  face  impossible  to 
describe.  It  was  like  the  face  of  a  lover,  a  dreamer  of 
dreams. 


TINTAGEL  375 

"  A  man  is  a  mystery  to  himself,"  he  said. 

«  But  to  God  ?  " 

"  I  know  no  God,  save  the  god  my  own  soul.  Let  me 
live  and  die,  nothing  more.  Why  curse  one's  life  with  a 
4  to  be ' ?  " 

Uther  sighed  heavily. 

"  It  is  a  kind  of  fate  to  me,"  he  said,  "  inevitable  as  the 
setting  of  the  sun,  natural  as  sleep.  Not  for  myself  do  I 
fear  it."  ' 

"Let  Jehovah  follow  Jupiter  into  the  chaos  of  fable. 
Sire,  look  yonder." 

Merlin's  eyes  had  caught  life  on  the  distant  hillsides,  life 
surging  from  the  valleys,  life,  and  the  glory  of  it.  Harness, 
helm,  and  shield  shone  in  the  sun.  Gold,  azure,  silver, 
scarlet,  were  creeping  from  the  bronzed  green  of  the  wilds. 
Silent  and  solemn  the  host  rolled  gradual  into  the  full 
splendour  of  the  day. 

Uther's  eyes  beheld  them  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"  King  Nentres,  King  Urience,  and  the  host,"  he  said. 

"  Even  so,  sire." 

"  They  were  bidden  to  follow." 

"  Loyal  to  their  king." 

Uther  watched  them  with  a  great  pride  stealing  into  his 
eyes  ;  he  smiled  and  held  his  head  high. 

"  All  these  are  mine,"  he  said. 

Merlin's  face  had  kindled. 

"  Grapple  the  days  to  come,"  he  said  ;  "  let  Scripture  and 
old  ethics  rot.  You  have  a  thousand  knights ;  let  them 
ride  by  stream  and  forest,  moor  and  mere.  Let  them  ride 
out  and  sunder  like  the  wind." 

"  The  quest  of  a  King's  heart  !  " 

"  Sire,  like  a  golden  dawn  shall  she  rise  out  of  the  past. 
Blow  thy  horn.  Let  us  not  tarry." 


3/6  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 


X 

Six  days  had  passed.  Once  more  the  sun  had  tossed 
night  from  the  sky,  and  kindled  hope  in  the  hymning 
east.  The  bleak  wilderness  barriered  by  sea  and  crag  had 
mellowed  into  the  golden  silence  of  autumnal  woods.  The 
very  trees  seemed  tongued  with  prophetic  flame.  The 
world  like  a  young  -lover  leapt  radiant  out  of  the  dawn. 

Through  the  reddened  woods  rode  Uther  the  King  with 
Merlin  silent  at  his  side.  Gloom  still  reigned  on  the  gaunt, 
strong  face,  and  there  was  no  lustre  in  the  eyes  that 
challenged  ever  the  lurking  shade  of  death.  Six  nights  and 
six  days  had  the  quest  been  baffled.  Near  and  far  armour 
glimmered  in  the  reddened  sanctuaries  of  the  woods.  Not 
a  trumpet  brayed,  though  the  host  had  scattered  in  search  of 
a  woman's  face. 

At  the  seventh  dawn  the  trees  drew  back  before  the  King, 
where  the  shimmering  waters  of  a  river  streaked  the  meads. 
Peace  dwelt  there,  and  a  calm  eternal,  as  of  the  Spirit 
that  heals  the  throes  of  men.  Rare  and  golden  lay  the 
dawn-light  on  the  valley.  The  song  of  birds  came  glad 
and  multitudinous  as  in  the  burgeoning  dawn  of  a  glori- 
ous May. 

Uther  had  halted  under  a  great  oak.  His  head  was  bare 
in  the  sun-steeped  shadows;  his  face  was  as  the  face  of  one 
weary  with  long  watching  under  the  voiceless  stars.  Hope, 
like  a  dewless  rose,  drooped  shaken  and  thirsty  with  desire. 
Great  dread  possessed  him.  He  dared  not  question  his 
own  soul. 

A  horn  sounded  in  the  woods,  wild,  clamorous  and 
exultant.  It  was  as  the  voice  of  a  prophet  cleaving  the 
despair  of  a  godless  world.  Even  the  trees  stood  listening. 
Far  below  in  the  green  shadows  of  the  valley  a  horse- 
man moved  brilliant  as  a  star  that  portents  the  concep- 
tion of  a  king. 

Uther's  eyes  were  on  the  horseman  in  the  valley. 


TINTAGEL  377 

"  I  am  even  as  a  child,"  he  said. 

Merlin's  lips  quivered. 

"  The  dawn  breaks,  sire,  the  night  is  past.  Tidings  come 
to  us.  Let  us  ride  on." 

Uther  seemed  sunk  in  thought ;  he  bowed  his  head,  and 
looked  long  into  the  valley. 

"  Am  I  he  who  slew  Gorlois  ?  " 

"  Courage,  sire." 

"  My  blood  is  as  water,  my  heart  as  wax.  Death  and 
destiny  are  over  my  head." 

"Speak  not  of  destiny,  sire,  and  look  not  to  the  skies. 
In  himself  is  man's  power.  Thou  hast  broken  the  crucifix. 
Now  trust  thine  own  soul.  So  long  as  thou  didst  serve  a 
superstition,  thou  didst  lose  thy  true  heaven." 

"  And  yet  —  " 

"  Thou  hast  played  the  god,  sire,  and  the  Father  in 
heaven  must  love  thee  for  thy  strength.  God  loves  the 
strong.  He  will  let  thee  rule  destiny,  and  so  prosper." 

"  Strange  words  !  " 

"  But  true.  Were  I  God,  should  I  love  the  priest  puling 
prayers  in  a  den  ?  Nay,  that  man  should  be  mine  who 
moved  godlike  in  the  world,  and  strangled  fate  with  the 
grip  of  truth.  Great  deeds  are  better  than  prayers.  See  ! 
it  is  young  Tristan  who  comes." 

The  horseman  in  the  valley  had  swept  at  a  gallop 
through  a  sea  of  sun-bronzed  fern.  He  was  a  young 
knight  on  a  black  horse,  caparisoned  in  green  and  gold. 
A  halo  of  glistening  curls  aureoled  his  boyish  face  ;  his 
eyes  were  full  of  a  restless  radiance,  the  eyes  of  a  man 
whose  heart  was  troubled.  He  sprang  from  the  saddle, 
and  leading  his  horse  by  the  bridle,  kissed  the  scabbard  of 
Uther's  sword. 

"  Tidings,  sire." 

u  Tristan,  I  listen." 

The  knight  looked  for  a  moment  into  the  King's  face, 
but  dared  not  abide  the  trial.  There  was  such  a  stare  of 
desperate  calm  in  the  dark  eyes,  that  the  lad's  courage 


378  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

whimpered,  and  quailed  from  the  truth.     He  hung  his  head, 
and  stood  mute. 

"  Tristan,  I  listen." 

"Sire  —  " 

"  My  God,  man,  speak  out !  " 

«  Sire  —  " 

"  The  truth." 
.    u  She  lives,  sire  !  " 

A  great  silence  fell  within  the  hearts  of  the  three,  an 
ecstasy  of  silence  such  as  comes  after  the  wail  of  a  storm. 
Merlin  stroked  his  lip,  and  smiled,  the  smile  of  one  who 
dreams.  The  King's  face  was  as  the  face  of  one  who 
thrusts  back  hope  out  of  his  soul.  He  sat  rigid  on  his 
horse,  a  scarlet  image  fronting  Fate,  grim-eyed  and  steadfast. 
There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Tristan  the  knight. 

"  What  more  ?  " 

Tristan  leant  against  his  horse,  his  arm  hooked  over  the 
brute's  neck. 

"  In  the  valley,  sire,  is  a  sanctuary  ;  you  can  see  it  yonder 
by  the  ford.  Two  holy  women  dwell  therein.  To  them, 
sire,  I  commend  you." 

"  You  know  more  !  " 

"  Sire,  spare  me.  The  words  are  for  women's  lips,  not 
for  mine." 

"  So  be  it." 

The  three  rode  on  in  silence ;  Merlin  and  Tristan 
together,,  looking  mutely  in  each  other's  faces.  Uther's 
chin  was  bowed  on  his  breast.  The  reins  lay  loose  on  his 
horse's  neck. 

A  grey  cell  of  un faced  stone  showed  amid  the  green 
boughs  beyond  the  water.  At  its  door  stood  a  woman  in  a 
black  mantle.  A  cross  hung  from  her  neck,  and  a  white 
kerchief  bound  her  hair.  She  stood  motionless,  half  in  the 
shadow,  watching  the  horsemen  as  they  rode  down  to  the 
rippling  ford. 

Autumn  had  touched  the  sanctuary  garden,  and  the  King's 
eyes  beheld  ruin  as  he  climbed  the  slope.  The  woman  had 


TINTAGEL  379 

come  from  the  cell,  and  now  stood  at  the  wicket-gate,  with 
her  hands  folded  as  in  prayer.  Tristan  took  Uther's  bridle. 
The  King  went  on  foot  alone  to  speak  with  the  anchoress. 

"  Sire,"  she  said,  kneeling  at  his  feet,  "  God  save  and> 
comfort  you." 

The  man's  brow  was  twisted  into  furrows.  His  right 
hand  clasped  his  left  wrist.  He  looked  over  the  woman's 
head  into  the  woods,  and  breathed  fast  through  clenched 
teeth. 

"  Speak,"  he  said. 

"  Sire,  the  woman  lives." 

"  I  can  bear  the  truth." 

The  anchoress  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  She  came  to  us,  sire,  here  in  this  valley,  a  tall  lady,  with 
golden  hair  loose  upon  her  neck.  Her  feet  were  bare  and 
bleeding,  her  robe  rent  with  thorns.  And  as  she  came,  she 
sang  wild  snatches,  such  as  tell  of  love.  We  took  her,  sire, 
and  gave  her  meat  and  drink,  bathed  her  torn  feet,  and  gave 
her  raiment.  So,  she  abode  with  us,  gentle  and  lovely,  yet 
speaking  like  one  who  had  suffered,  even  to  death.  And 
yet,  even  as  we  slept,  she  stole  away  from  us  last  ni^ht,  and 
now  is  gone." 

The  woman  had  never  so  mudi  as  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
man's  face.  Her  hands  held  her  crucifix,  and  she  was  pale 
as  new-hewn  stone. 

"  And  is  this  all  ?  " 

The  man's  voice  trembled  in  his  throat ;  his  face  shone 
in  the  sun. 

"  Not  all,  sire." 

"  Say  on." 

The  anchoress  had  buried  her  face  in  her  black  mantle ; 
her  voice  was  husky  as  with  tears. 

"  Sire,  you  seek  one  bereft  of  reason." 

"  Mad !  " 

«  Alas ! " 

"  My  God,  this  then  is  the  end  ! " 


380  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 


XI 

AN  indefinite  melancholy  overshadowed  the  world.  Autumn 
breathed  in  the  wind ;  the  year  was  rushing  red-bosomed  to 
its  doom. 

On  the  summit  of  a  wood-crowned  hill,  rising  like  a 
pyramid  above  moor  and  forest,  two  men  stood  silent  under 
the  shadow  of  an  oak.  In  the  distance  the  sea  glimmered  ; 
and  by  a  rock  upon  the  hillside,  armed  knights,  a  knot  of 
spears,  shone  like  spirit  sentinels  athwart  the  west.  Mists 
were  creeping  up  the  valleys  as  the  sun  went  down  into  the 
sea.  A  few  stars,  dim  and  comfortless,  gleamed  out  like 
souls  still  tortured  by  the  platitudes  of  Time.  An  inevitable 
pessimism  seemed  to  challenge  the  universe,  taking  for  its 
parable  the  weird  afterglow  in  the  west. 

Deep  in  the  woods  a  voice  was  singing,  wild  and  solitary 
in  the  gathering  gloom.  Like  the  cry  of  a  ghost,  it  seemed 
to  set  the  silence  quivering,  the  leaves  quaking  with  a 
windless  awe.  The  men  who  looked  towards  the  sea  heard 
it,  a  song  that  echoed  in  the  heart  like  woe. 

"  Sire,  there  is  yet  hope." 

"  Life  grows  dim,  and  %reams  elapse  in  fire." 

Merlin  pointed  into  the  darkening  woods.  His  eyes 
shone  crystal  bright,  and  there  was  a  great  radiance  upon 
his  face. 

"  Sire,  trust  thine  own  heart,  and  the  god  in  thee. 
Through  superstition  thou  hast  been  brought  nigh  unto 
death  and  to  despair.  Trust  not  in  priestcraft,  grapple  God 
unto  thy  soul.  The  laws  of  men  are  carven  upon  stone,  the 
laws  of  heaven  upon  the  heart.  Be  strong.  From  hence- 
forth scorn  mere  words.  Trample  custom  in  the  dust. 
Trust  thyself,  and  the  god  in  thy  heart." 

The  distant  voice  had  sunk  into  silence.  Uther  listened 
for  it  with  hand  aloft. 

"Yonder  —  heaven  calls,"  he  said. 

"  Go,  sire." 


TINTAGEL  381 

"  I  must  be  near  her  —  through  the  night." 

u  And  lo  !  —  the  moon  stands  full  upon  the  hills.  You 
shall  bless  me  yet." 

Dim  were  the  woods  that  autumn  evening,  dim  and  deep 
with  an  ecstasy  of  gloom.  Stars  flickered  in  the  heavens ; 
the  moon  came,  and  broidered  the  trees  with  silver  flame. 
A  primaeval  calm  lay  heavy  upon  the  bosom  of  the  night. 
The  spectral  branches  of  the  trees  were  rigid  and  prayerful 
towards  the  sky. 

Uther  had  left  Merlin  gazing  out  upon  the  shimmering 
sea.  The  voice  called  him  from  the  woods  with  plaintive 
peals  of  song.  The  man  followed,  holding  to  a  grass-grown 
track  that  curled  purposeless  into  the-gloom.  Moonlight 
and  shadow  were  alternate  upon  his  armour.  Hope  and 
despair  were  mimicked  upon  his  face.  His  soul  leapt 
voiceless  and  inarticulate  into  the  darkened  shrine  of 
prayer. 

The  voice  came  to  him  clearer  in  the  forest  calm.  The 
gulf  had  narrowed ;  the  words  flew  as  over  the  waters  of 
death.  They  were  pure,  yet  reasonless,  passionate,  yet 
void,  words  barbed  with  an  utter  pathos  that  wounded 
desire. 

For  an  hour  the  King  followed  in  the  woods,  drawing 
ever  nearer,  waxing  great  with  prayer.  Anon  the  voice 
failed  him  by  a  little  stream  that  quivered  dimly  through  the 
grass.  A  stillness  that  was  ghostly  held  the  woods.  The 
moonlight  seemed  to  shudder  on  the  trees.  A  stupendous 
stupor  weighed  upon  the  world. 

A  hollow  glade  opened  sudden  in  the  woods,  a  white 
gulf  in  the  forest's  gloom.  Water  shone  there,  a  mere,  rush- 
ringed,  and  full  of  mysterious  shadows,  girded  by  the  bronzed 
foliage  of  stately  beeches.  Moss  grew  thick  about  the  roots ; 
dead  leaves  covered  the  grass. 

The  man  knelt  in  a  patch  of  bracken,  and  looked  out 
over  the  glade.  A  figure  went  to  and  fro  by  the  water's 
brim,  a  figure  pale  in  the  moonlight,  with  a  glimmering 
flash  of  unloosed  hair.  The  man  kneeling  in  the  bracken 


382  UTHER  AND   IGRAINE 

pressed  his  hands  over  his  breast ;  his  face  seemed  to  start 
out  of  the  gloom  like  the  face  of  one  who  struggles  in  the 
sea,  submerged,  yet  desperate. 

Uther  saw  the  woman  halt  beside  the  mere.  He  saw  her 
bend,  take  water  in  her  palms,  and  dash  it  in  her  face. 
Standing  in  the  moonlight  she  smoothed  her  hair  between 
her  fingers,  her  hands  shining  white  against  the  dark  bosom 
of  her  dress.  She  seemed  to  murmur  to  herself  the  while, 
words  wistful  and  full  of  woe.  Once  she  thrust  her  hands 
to  the  sky  and  cried,  "  Pelleas  !  Pelleas  !  "  The  man  kneel- 
ing in  the  shadow  quivered  like  a  wind-shaken  reed. 

The  moon  climbed  higher,  and  the  woman  by  the  mere 
spread  her  cloak  upon  a  patch  of  heather,  and  laid  herself 
thereon.  Not  a  sound  ravaged  the  silence  ;  the  woods  were 
mute,  the  air  rippleless  as  the  steel-surfaced  water.  An 
hour  passed.  The  figure  on  the  heather  lay  still  as  an 
effigy  upon  a  tomb.  The  man  in  the  bracken  cast  one  look 
at  the  stars,  crossed  himself,  and  crept  out  into  the  moon- 
light. 

Holding  the  scabbard  of  his  sword,  he  skirted  the  mere 
with  shimmering  armour,  went  down  upon  his  knees,  and 
crawled  slowly  over  the  grass.  Hours  seemed  to  elapse 
before  the  black  patch  of  heather  spread  crisp  and  dry 
beneath  his  hands.  Breathing  through  dilating  nostrils,  he 
trembled  like  a  craven  who  creeps  to  stab  a  sleeping  friend. 
The  moonlight  showered  vivid  as  with  a  supernatural  glory. 
Tense  anguish  crowded  the  night  with  sound. 

Two  more  paces,  and  he  was  close  at  the  woman's  side. 
The  heather  crackled  beneath  his  knees.  He  held  his 
breath,  crept  nearer,  and  knelt  so  near  that  he  could  have 
kissed  the  woman's  face.  Her  head  lay  pillowed  on  her 
arm,  her  hair  spread  in  a  golden  sheet  beneath  it.  Her 
bosom  moved  with  the  rhythmic  calm  of  dreamless  sleep. 
Her  lips  were  parted  in  a  smile.  One  hand  was  hid  in  the 
dark  folds  of  her  robe. 

Uther  knelt  with  upturned  face,  his  eyes  shut  to  the  sky. 
He  seemed  like  one  faint  with  pain ;  his  lips  moved  as  in 


;  SHALL    I    NOT    BE    YOUR    WIFE" 


TINTAGEL  383 

prayer.  A  hundred  inarticulate  pleadings  surged  heaven- 
wards from  his  heart. 

Again  he  bowed  himself  and  watched  the  woman  as  she 
slept.  A  strange  calm  fell  for  a  season  upon  his  face ;  his 
eyes  never  wavered  from  the  white  arm  and  the  glimmering 
hair.  Vast  awe  possessed  him.  He  was  like  a  child  who 
broods  tearless  and  amazed  over  the  calm  face  of  a  dead 
mother. 

Hours  passed,  and  the  man  found  no  sustenance  save  in 
prayer.  The  unuttered  yearnings  of  a  world  seemed  molten 
in  his  soul.  The  moon  waned ;  the  stars  grew  dim. 
Sounds  oracular  were  moving  in  the  forest,  the  mysterious 
breathing  of  a  thousand  trees.  Life  ebbed  and  flowed  with 
the  sigh  of  a  moon-s'tupored  sea.  Visions  blazed  in  the 
night  sky.  The  portals  of  heaven  were  open;  the  sound 
of  harping  tell  like  silver  rain  out  of  the  clouds ;  the  faces 
of  .saints  shone  radiant  through  purple  gloom. 

Hours  passed,  and  neither  sleeper  nor  watcher  stirred. 
The  night  grew  faint,  the  water  flickered  in  the  mere. 
The  very  stars  seemed  to  gaze  upon  the  destinies  of  two 
wearied  souls.  Death  hid  his  countenance.  Christ  walked 
the  earth. 

A  sudden  sound  of  light,  and  the  stirring  of  a  wind. 
Far  and  faint  came  the  quaver  of  a  bird's  note.  Grey  and 
mysterious  stood  the  forest's  spires.  Light !  Spears  of 
amber  darting  in  the  east.  A  shudder  seemed  to  shake  the 
universe.  The  vault  kindled.  The  sky  grew  great  with  gold. 

It  was  the  dawn. 

Even  as  the  light  increased  the  man  knelt  and  lifted  up 
his  face  unto  the  heavens.  Hope,  glorious,  seemed  to  fall 
sudden  out  of  the  east,  a  radiant  faith  begotten  of  spirit 
power.  Banners  of  gold  were  streaming  in  the  sky.  The 
gloom  elapsed.  A  vast  expectancy  hung  solemn  upon  the 
red  lips  of  the  day. 

Igraine  sighed  in  her  sleep.  Her  mouth  quivered,  her 
hair  stirred  sudden  in  the  heather,  tendrils  of  gold  that 
shivered  in  the  sun.  Uther,  kneeling,  lifted  up  his  hands 


384  UTHER  AND  IGRAINE 

with  one  long  look  to  heaven.  Prayer  burnt  upon  his  face. 
He  strove,  Jacob-like,  with  God. 

A  second  sigh,  and  the  long  lashes  quivered.  The  lips 
moved,  the  eyes  opened. 

"  Igraine  !    Igraine  !  " 

Sudden  silence  followed,  a  vast  hush  as  of  hope.  The 
woman's  eyes  were  searching  silently  the  man's  face.  He 
bent  and  cowered  over  her  like  one  who  weeps.  His  hands 
touched  her  body,  yet  she  did  not  stir. 

"  Igraine  !    Igraine  !  " 

It  was  a  hoarse,  passionate  cry  that  broke  the  golden 
stupor  of  the  dawn.  Sudden  light  leapt  lustrous  in  the 
woman's  eyes  ;  her  face  shone  radiant  amid  her  hair. 

"  Pelleas  !  " 

The  man's  arms  circled  her.  She  half  crouched  in  his 
bosom,  her  face  peering  into  his. 

"  Pelleas  !  " 

«  At  last !  " 

A  great  shudder  passed  through  her ;  her  eyes  grew  big 
with  fear. 

"  Speak !  " 

"  Igraine." 

"  Gorlois  ?  " 

u  Gorlois  is  dead." 

Great  silence  held  for  a  moment.  The  woman's  head 
sank  down  upon  the  man's  shoulder ;  madness  had  passed  ; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  with  a  wonderful  earnestness,  a 
splendid  calm. 

"  Is  this  a  dream  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  truth." 

Presently  she  gave  a  great  sigh,  and  looked  strangely 
at  the  sun.  Her  voice  came  soft  as  music  over 
water. 

"  I  have  dreamed  a  dream,"  she  said,  "  and  all  was  dark 
and  fearful.  Death  seemed  near,  and  shadows,  and  things 
from  hell.  I  knew  not  what  I  did,  nor  where  I  wandered, 
nor  what  strange  stupor  held  my  soul.  All  was  dark  about 


TINT  A  GEL  385 

me,  horrible  midnight  peopled  with  foul  forms.  It  has 
passed  ;  now,  I  behold  the  dawn." 

The  man  lifted  up  his  voice  and  wept. 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  out  of  hell  hast  thou  brought  my 
soul.  Never  again  shall  my  vile  lips  blaspheme." 

And  Igraine  comforted  him. 

w  Shall  I  not  be  your  wife  ?  "  she  said. 


THE    END 


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